


No More These Sounds

by elistaire



Category: Spider-man (Cartoon 1994-1997), The Avengers (2012), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 51,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a battle, Agent Clint Barton is accidentally de-aged. The rest of the team doesn't realize it, and goes on to where they are needed next.  Until they get back, and someone can figure out how to return Clint to normal, it looks like Clint being a teenager is going to be a long term situation, so Phil does the best he can, and sends Clint to school.  </p><p>Clint doesn't remember being an adult, so he doesn't know he's an agent, or that he's Hawkeye, or who the Avengers are, and he certainly doesn't know that he was in a relationship with Steve Rogers.<br/>~~~<br/><i>The last thing that Agent Phil Coulson knew for sure that Captain America saw, prior to acquiescing to Thor's urgent request for the standing team members to transport to Asgard to resolve an emergency there, was Clint Barton moving beneath Phil's coat, and Phil giving Captain America a head nod that all was well....</i><br/>~~~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Severe spoiler and warning notes at the end. 
> 
> Most of the MacGuffin is the Tablet of Time, which was in a few episodes of the animated series Spider-man (1994-1997) . 
> 
> The title comes from the translation of _Ode to Joy_.
> 
> Every year for my birthday, I post a story. I've been working on this one for months, and it ended up a lot longer than the usual birthday stories (around 50k), so I thought I'd post it in parts, and finish the posting on my birthday (about 2 weeks hence). Any birthday wishes would be gratefully received.  
> Enjoy!

The last thing that Agent Phil Coulson knew for sure that Captain America saw, prior to acquiescing to Thor's urgent request for the standing team members to transport to Asgard to resolve an emergency there, was Clint Barton moving beneath Phil's coat, and Phil giving Captain America a head nod that all was well. 

It was that head nod, he knew, that allowed Steve to set his jaw and go forth into another battle. Otherwise, there wouldn't have been a force on heaven or earth that might have moved Steve from Clint's side. 

Phil knew this. He also knew that the Avengers had been needed, even one member fewer, to aid Thor and his world, and that was the only reason he'd given the nod. 

Captain America and the rest of the team had vanished in a blitz of light, leaving behind only the convoluted markings that signified Asgardian magic. Phil could still feel Steve's solid gaze weighing upon him, as if it had mass. It had been the right action to take, but it didn't mean that Phil felt any better about it. 

Now Phil turned his attention back to the matter in front of him and placed one hand on Clint's shoulder. He frowned. "Clint?" he asked softly. "Wake up, okay? I need to see that you're fine." He had taken off his jacket and laid it over Clint's body. It was bitterly cold that day, even though the sunshine was bright, and Clint's uniform was sleeveless.

But Clint didn't respond to him. Phil spoke into his earpiece. "I need a medical evac." The static response in his ear didn't bode well. 

"Agent?"

Phil turned and saw Spider-man land softly only five feet away. He went into his usual crouch, knees splayed, and he tilted his head, curious and concerned. It was amazing, really, Phil thought, how much empathy the superhero emoted, considering his mask rendered him expressionless. 

"Your ground team took the tablet and hid it in a van. The police are also rounding up the rest of Silvermane's goonsquad. Looks like all's well that ends well." Spider-man inclined his head to the figure on the ground. "Except here. What can I do to help?"

"He needs to get to medical," Phil said. He feathered his fingers across Clint's forehead, but the touch didn't cause Clint to open his eyes. He was breathing, so Phil's internal meter of concern wasn't yet reaching critical.

"I can carry him, if he isn't hurt…I mean, his spine or internal bleeding…." Spider-man moved closer and hovered overhead with Phil. "He looks different," Spider-man said. "Is this a civilian? I thought he was an Avenger."

"Hawkeye," Phil said. "He got hit by one of those refracted beams from the tablet."

"Oh, geez," Spider-man said. "That's really bad." 

His earpiece was still a wall of static, and no medical assistance was coming, so Phil shifted Clint into Spider-man's arms. He kept Clint wrapped in his jacket, the dark fabric only serving to highlight his sudden, unusual pallor. "I believe it is safe to carry him. If you would please take him to the closest transport, it will take him to the helicarrier for medical attention."

Spider-man cradled Hawkeye to him, which wasn't hard because he'd lost weight and height. "He's just a kid now," Spider-man said, his voice soft. "Aw, geez. That tablet's bad news."

"I know. Please, hurry. I'm sure he's in shock." Phil couldn't help but brush his fingers across Clint's cheek, checking and rechecking, but Clint still breathed, so nothing had changed. Then Phil watched as Spider-man shot a thin line of webbing at an anchor-point up high, and threw himself upward, hitching Clint more firmly into the crook of his free arm. 

"I'll take care of him," Spider-man said as he swung away, becoming smaller against the sky. "And we should talk at some point. I saw this once before."

"Before?" Phil asked. "What happened?" He wanted Spider-man to hurry, to get Clint to medical personnel, even as Spider-man's words rang loudly, importantly to his inner gauge, but Spider-man hadn't hesitated and now he was already gone, swinging through the air. Phil's question fell into empty air.

Phil finally stood, brushed the dirt and ash from his knees, and began to make his way to the fringes of the action. He would need to inform Director Fury, there would be paperwork to fill out, and Phil needed to figure out a way to make peace with himself. He'd allowed Captain America to continue on, when Clint wasn't okay at all.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three days since the battle over the Tablet of Time had wrapped up, and Phil Coulson had just about finished his paperwork. 

Of course, neither the Avengers had reappeared nor had Clint woken up from the stress of his unintended transformation, so there was a lot of time for Phil to work on the forms. And to sit by Clint's bedside. 

Director Fury walked into the room with purpose in his stride. "How is he?" he asked as he stopped at the foot of the bed. 

"Doing well, considering. The doctors think he'll wake up at any time." Phil resisted the urge to reach out and touch Clint's arm. He had been doing it every so often, to reassure himself Clint was there, because he'd had the sudden sense for the past three days that the agent might vanish at any moment. "We have everyone available examining the tablet. Doctor Connors from the university has also been invited to continue his translation of the markings. We should know something soon."

"Good." Fury pulled an envelope out of his inner jacket pocket and at Phil's questioning look he shrugged. "The bridge agents signed a get well card," he said. He placed it on the table next to the bed. "Report as soon as you can about the tablet. I'd like to get my agent back."

"Yes, sir." Phil sat up straighter in his chair as Fury left the room. After waiting a moment, he did reach out and place a hand on Clint's shoulder. "Anytime now, Hawkeye," he said, softly. Phil had little faith that anything substantial would come from the analysis of the tablet. He'd already read Doctor Connors' fascinating briefs on the subject, and it seemed that Clint was lucky to not be dead, or turned into an infant. 

Connors had very clearly detailed the enhanced aging that resulted to plant material placed in front of the tablet when bombarded with various light frequencies. Phil was also aware of Silvermane's unintended rejuvenation from an eighty-year old man into a mewling infant not yet developed enough to crawl, after Phil had spent the time to hunt down Spider-man and finally get the information he'd mentioned before swinging Clint away to safety. Silvermane had very deliberately bounced direct sunlight off the tablet onto himself in an attempt to secure his youth once more. It has worked. Far too well. Silvermane had been reduced to the tender form of a toddler, although Spider-man had been too busy at the time to notice much more about the man's condition. 

Now Silvermane's daughter was controlling his forces, and was attempting to retrieve possession of the tablet once more, in an effort to use it to help return her father to a more suitable age. That battle had ended in defeat for her, but also in the tablet being accidently exposed to Thor's lightning strikes, and consequently Clint getting caught in a stray reflected bounce. 

Looking at him in the hospital bed, Phil didn't even want to try and guess how many years Clint had lost. The doctors estimated he was somewhere in his mid-teens. But that just seemed ludicrous to Phil. 

Phil spent a moment to fuss with the blankets, making sure Clint was covered. The monitors sat quietly, so he knew all was well, but he brushed the back of his hand against Clint's brow anyway, searching for fever. Finding none, he sat back down again. 

He wasn't really that much older than Clint had been, but Phil had always been the senior agent, so they'd formed a relationship based on mentoring. Even when Clint took on independence as an agent, that bond hadn't ever changed. Phil often felt like Clint was the younger brother he'd never had. 

~~~ 

Clint opened his eyes and took a moment to try to remember what had happened. He could see that he was in a hospital room, though he didn't know how he'd injured himself to get there. It must have been bad, though, because he wouldn't have been brought to a hospital otherwise. No one had money for that kind of treatment. Usually, everyone just sort of took care of each other, and home remedies really did work wonders. 

Clint shifted and noticed there was a man scribbling away at some papers. He was sitting in a chair next to the bed, but Clint didn't recognize him. He was well dressed, and Clint worried that he might be the hospital's bill collector, so Clint closed his eyes again. He felt tired and sore, but he didn't think anything was broken, but he also didn't feel like trying to make a break for it just yet. He was still really tired. Since he wasn't handcuffed to the bed, he figured there was time to escape later. For now, he'd pretend to be asleep until he really did fall asleep again. Maybe when he woke up, the man would be gone. 

~~~ 

Phil looked up at the sudden shift in Clint's breathing pattern, but his eyes were closed and he looked as if he'd barely moved. Phil put down his pen. 

"Clint?" he asked. He put his hand on Clint's wrist. "Wake up," he said. "Just open your eyes. Please."

A tremor ran through Clint's arm, and then he exhaled loudly, and did open his eyes. He turned to look at Phil with a fleeting expression of worry and fear, and then a blank mask formed to hide those emotions. Except in his eyes, where Phil knew Clint had the hardest time hiding anything. "What happened?" Clint asked, and his voice wasn't even the same as Phil remembered it. It was lighter, though still familiar. 

"You got hit," Phil told him. "It's been three days."

Clint blanched. "Hit? I don't feel—" His face drained of all residual color, and suddenly Phil found that he was flexing his hands and moving his feet. A pale red flush suffused his face. "Not paralyzed," he said. "Was it a ricochet? One of mine?"

Phil shook his head, but things were not fitting very well inside his head. Spider-man's narrative had indicated that Silvermane had kept his memories and identity when he'd been rejuvenated, at least as far as Spider-man had observed. But a strange concern had taken root in Phil's mind. "I need you to tell me your name and age."

There was a slight hesitation, and Phil wondered if Clint was about to give a false name, but then he seemed to remember that Phil had already called him by name, and he looked resigned. 

"Clint Barton. Seventeen."

Phil marshaled his expression. He was good at that, though the shock was painful. "Okay," he said. "And my name?"

Clint shook his head. "I don't know."

"It's Phil. Phil Coulson. You may not remember, but we're friends. And co-workers." 

Clint scowled a little at those words, and Coulson suspected that he just didn't believe it. Phil took a deep breath. He just needed to take this one step at a time. 

"I'm going to get the doctors to look at you. We've all been very concerned. You're going to be fine, but they need to make sure."

Clint flushed again. "Sir," he said, "I can't…I can't pay for the doctors. I need to…could I just go now? I'm okay, I think."

"That is not something you have to worry about. It's being paid for. I just want you to get the correct medical care. Okay?" Phil kept his tone mild. He'd seen others before with various head injuries, and amounts of time and memory damaged and stolen. It was never an easy process to re-assimilate to reality. He just needed to knock down each concern as it came up.

"I really shouldn't. It's nice of you and all, but I can't," Clint said, looking slightly panicked, and definitely ready to bolt. His voice held the petulant, brassy edge of a teenager going full throttle at demanding independence. "Thank you for taking care of me before, though. I just need to go back."

"Please," Phil said, keeping his own voice even and calm. "There won't be any bills. I promise. You can leave whenever you like, but later. After we're sure that you aren't still hurt."

Clint nodded, though he looked both suspicious and nervous, and Phil tried not to notice how ridiculously small he looked in the hospital bed, swaddled in white sheets and blankets. Phil stood up and walked to the doorway, and signaled for a doctor.


	3. Chapter 3

"He's nearly forty pounds under his status weight, and three inches shorter," Phil reported. He was in Fury's office, dictating the information from a handful of notes he'd taken, and from the doctor's observations. "Otherwise extremely healthy. In fact, scans indicate that some older scarring and cartilage damage isn't present. Although some pins from a previous surgery to fix a broken wrist are still present, though not functioning. Or at least, it doesn't appear that way, nor do those bones ever appear to have been broken."

Fury interrupted him, "Do you find that curious?"

"Somewhat," Phil admitted. "Obviously we think he has been age regressed. But that the pins are still present mean that he's just been transformed, not—" Phil gave a shrug since concepts with time were ephemeral at best, "—replaced by his younger self. So, there is a question of whether Agent Barton could be…recovered might be the best term for it, sir. From within himself, if you will."

"Hmm," Fury said, and then waved him on. "Continue with your report."

Phil said, "He no longer has the severe hearing loss from the percussive incident. His hearing is currently well above average. Doctor estimates and Barton's own admission put him at seventeen years of age. Brief testing of intelligence puts him at the same level as in his files, although his knowledge base is severely restricted. He seems to know curse words in five languages, and a smattering of limited functionality in a few other languages, but otherwise, is only currently fluent in English."

Fury actually smirked at that. 

Phil continued, "He can't easily use his issued bow. It's pull settings are too heavy for him, and the bow itself is too large and unwieldy. However, with a smaller and lighter bow, his marksmanship remains unparalleled, though obviously nascent. He has the same acuity with firearms, though he has only a very basic knowledge of the weapons themselves." Phil gave a slight cough. "I helped him reload, sir. And showed him how to take the safety off."

"Hell's bell's, Agent," said Fury, and Phil knew he was only being somewhat facetious. There was an undercurrent of disbelief, and a sharp disapproving tang. Fury did not take kindly to his agents being diminished. "So, I've got a brand new Agent Barton to mold? All I have to do is get him up to speed on the languages he lost, and the policies he needs to follow, and he'll be nearly good as new, and ready to serve for an additional twenty years?" 

"In theory, sir. In practice, Agent Barton has lost all of the field experience that made him so valuable, and that enabled him to complete missions that other agents were unable to fulfill."

"I see your point. So, the training will take longer. We'll need to send him in with the new recruits."

"At seventeen, sir, he is ineligible to join SHIELD. Additionally, his clearance levels are on hiatus, so he isn't allowed access to even basic operations, or general areas, without an escort. Currently he is distrustful of our intention toward him." Phil gave a polite cough. "Though, of course, his paperwork indicates his real age, and we both know special dispensation could be made. " Phil clasped his hands in front of him. "He was discharged from the hospital four days ago and has undergone extensive review. Reports from Research indicate no forward movement on the tablet analysis, such that returning him to his previous state is not yet feasible. And until the Avengers return from Asgard, I do not recommend returning him to his Stark Tower quarters."

Fury steepled his fingers. "And what do you recommend, Agent Coulson, that I do with a seventeen year old Agent Barton, the greatest marksman in the world?"

Phil gave another polite cough. "Actually, sir, I thought we could enroll him in school."

~~~ 

It was the next day, after his meeting with Director Fury, that Phil was able to take Clint back down to the range. 

Just like his older self, Clint had fallen in love with the high-end range, and after spending just under a week with Phil, Clint had finally started getting chatty. The Clint that Phil knew could be either taciturn to a fault, or wittily engaging. It just depended on how he wanted to be perceived. But he could turn either facet off and on like he had a switch. This younger version of Clint had started out sullen and suspicious, giving cautious answers to some questions, and none to others, but that was only until he warmed up and grew comfortable. 

Now that he had ascertained that Phil was not going to hurt him, hospital bills really weren't forthcoming, and jail was definitely not on the table, Clint had bounced back to being friendly and familiar. If it weren't for the pitch of his voice, Phil might have closed his eyes and believed nothing had happened. 

"So then, I spent an entire month selling popcorn and cotton candy, and it was above ninety degrees every stupid day, and that popcorn kettle is really hot—" Clint barely paused in his story to hit the buttons to the door lock, and the lock clicked open, Clint took a breath to continue his story, "—and the oil for the popcorn was leaking out of the bottles that it comes in, and I didn't realize it, and the floor was getting all slippery. Well, the unicycle rider comes along just at the same time that—"

"Clint," Phil said, stopping his story. Clint had opened the door and was holding it for Phil to come in after him. "I didn't give you the code for the door yesterday. Did someone else?"

"No," Clint said. "Why?"

"You didn't see me put mine in? And copy it?"

"No. I just used mine—" Clint stopped and then frowned. He put a hand to his head and blinked. "I have my own code," he said. "But I don't remember…." He shook his head. 

"Never mind," Phil said. It was such a small thing. He didn't want to keep his hopes up based on a five digit key-lock button code. But, Phil thought it was a good sign. They changed the codes on a less than semi-regular basis, which meant that the agents generally got used to just punching the buttons, not really remembering their code. Clint's muscle memory had done the punching for him while he'd been distracted. It meant that Clint was still there, inside, somewhere. Maybe. "I wanted to talk to you about something important."

Clint stopped. "Important?" he echoed. "Like what?"

Phil gave him his best, most harmless smile. "I spoke with Director Fury, and he's agreed, that if you would like, that you should enroll in school. At least until we figure out how to return you to normal."

Clint frowned. "School? Are you nuts? I haven't gone to school since…well a long time."

"The school we're considering is different. I think you'd fit in."

Clint's frown turned into a scowl. "I thought you said I was an agent. That I just lost some of my memory, and that's why I can't remember working for you." 

It had taken Phil an entire afternoon to convince Clint that he couldn't return to the circus, and that he really was living in a different time. The technology all around them had helped, and considering how drastic the time shift had been, Clint had taken it surprisingly mildly. Phil wondered if the easy acceptance had been because some of the older Clint Barton still lurked underneath, as evidenced by the key-code combination knowledge. Clint hadn't been flustered by much, and when he'd tried things on his own, he seemed to have an almost immediate basic understanding of the components. Also, knowing Clint's background, Phil had been surprised by how quickly his distrust and fear had melted away, although he suspected that a good portion of it was Clint's innate personality to go with the flow. His ability to turn on a level of affability included a knack for getting people to like him enough to stick their necks out for him. Clint tried to charm people first, though he didn't trust anyone below the surface level of geniality that helped him get his way. 

Phil kept the harmless smile in place. "I also told you it was very complicated, and that going into a lot of details would take time. There's still a lot I haven't yet explained."

"Why can't I just stay here and train? You said you needed a sniper." The sullen cast was back on Clint's face, and Phil was amazed that over the years that Clint had learned to mask his emotions so well. As a teenager, every single one went on display as he felt it. 

"We do. But you have to be twenty-three to be an agent, and until you're eighteen, we aren't allowed to hire you even for grunt office work. Regulations. You can't remain on base for the long term, and you can't return to your quarters for several reasons."

"That you won't tell me," Clint said, a very black mood enveloping him. Phil hadn't yet found a way to speak about the Avengers. Or that Clint lived at Stark Tower. Or that he didn't live there alone. 

"I will. It just needs to be one piece at a time. A lot has happened, and finding out all in one chunk might be too big to swallow."

~~~ 

Clint stared up into the darkness. He hadn’t been able to sleep very much, mostly because he had a million thoughts running through his brain. What felt like two weeks ago, he’d been in the circus with his brother and everybody else. It had been a difficult life, and Clint had wished plenty of times that things could be different, but this was so extreme. He’d woken up in a hospital bed, and been told he’d actually been all grown up, and had earned his place as an archer in the military, but there’d been a terrific battle and he’d taken a hit. Now he wasn’t grown up anymore, but it was still the future. Clint had seen that—in little tiny bits, because Agent Coulson had shown him a newspaper, and computers, and Clint had walked around outside. The cars looked sleek and shiny, the televisions were flatter and bigger, phones all had buttons and now sometimes not even that but a screen to touch with your fingertips. Clint knew that in the circus that they hadn’t had the newest things, but the jump ahead was boggling. 

Clint was just getting used to the idea that he was all alone, without even his brother. He’d gotten comfortable with Agent Coulson, though it was still early yet, and Clint wasn't ready to completely trust him. The man hadn’t lied, that Clint could tell. He’d been polite and blunt, but he’d said that there was a lot to the story that he hadn’t told Clint, because the doctors were afraid to give him any more shocks just yet. After all, Clint had been knocked out for days from the hit. 

Sometimes things drifted into Clint’s mind, too, and he sort of knew that he really had been older. If he didn’t think too hard about things, he knew the codes to doors, and which way to turn in the corridors. He’d known where the sugar bowl was tucked away in the cupboard for his morning cereal in the staff kitchen, and last night he’d had an urge to order pizza from a place he was absolutely sure was just around the corner. 

Agent Coulson had put him up in a weird guest room in the building that he worked in, and he had stayed in a similar room just down the hallway. It had been just the right balance between feeling taken care of and locked in—which Clint wasn’t. He’d tried the windows and seen several ledges that would have made for an easy escape, and besides, he’d tested Agent Coulson by taking the staircase all the way outside. He’d stood on the sidewalk, and gone over to the hot dog vendor, and bought a hot dog with the money that Coulson had given him. Then he’d walked all the way around to the front doors, and they’d let him in like he was meant to be there. Since he wasn't overtly there to keep him penned in, Clint liked having Agent Coulson just down the hall. 

But Agent Coulson couldn’t babysit him forever. There was a tension in the way he talked about how Clint’s team was off on a mission and wasn’t back yet. That had surprised Clint. That he had a _team ___. Of course, they’d had to work missions when he’d been in the hospital. But Clint was anxious to meet them, and also scared beyond belief. They probably all wanted Clint to be old again, but Agent Coulson said that they didn’t know how to make that happen, so he wanted to move forward like it wouldn’t. Clint was bracing himself to meet the team, and to hear them all reject him.

Agent Coulson had promised, and Clint believed him because he’d said it with a weird look on his face, and an even weirder tone to his voice, that his agency _wanted_ Clint to keep working for them. But they had rules. They actually couldn’t hire him to be an agent again until he was twenty-three! Clint had been surprised. Agent Coulson had explained that actual agents usually had college degrees, although not always, and they very particularly wanted to make sure everyone was done with getting taller or bigger. So they had an age requirement. Clint could come work for them in other jobs, but not as an agent, when he turned eighteen, which was still months away. 

So, in the meantime, Agent Coulson thought that Clint could go to school. Which was bizarre because Clint had dropped out years ago, and never looked back. But sometimes he had _wished_ that he could have gone to school. The kids that came to the circus had always looked generally happy, and he’d been envious of their easy friendships, and the pocket money to buy candy, and play the carnival games. Now he was being handed that, on a silver platter. Agent Coulson had said, several times, that Clint didn’t need to worry about the money. That the agency took care of things. 

Clint didn’t want to be separated from Agent Coulson. Something in his memories balked at it. He didn’t remember the man, except in the underlying emotion that told him that he could trust him, and that he was _supposed_ to stay near him. Agent Coulson had assured him that when he wasn’t out on missions that he would come visit him at school. He’d also explained that the school was a very special boarding school, and that Clint was sure to like it there. _They have special people there,_ he’d said. _They’ll encourage your archery skills. You’ll need to work very hard to keep up with those students._

It made Clint nervous. But it was _school_. And it sounded like it came with a bed at night and food at mealtimes. It also came with clothes. 

Agent Coulson had taken him to a department store yesterday and they’d bought him several things. Suddenly Clint had nice clothes and comfortable shoes. It was more than Clint had ever remembered owning, and far nicer than the work clothes he'd had at the circus. Weirdly, like a surrogate father, Agent Coulson had also given Clint a small amount of cash, to spend as he pleased. Clint hadn't spent very much of it, because he wasn't sure that he didn't have to pay it back at some point, and because if things went south, it was good to have cash on hand when he needed to dash. 

Clint glanced at the glowing red numbers on the clock. He needed to get up and dressed. Agent Coulson said the school was outside the city, and that it was over an hour's drive. The train also went close enough, but Agent Coulson wanted to drop him off personally. Clint appreciated that. 

Clint finished dressing and heard a soft knock on the door. He opened it and Agent Coulson was there, looking kind, and a little tired around the eyes. “Ready in five minutes?” Agent Coulson asked. 

“I’m ready now,” Clint replied. 

Agent Coulson smiled. “Of course you are,” he said. “I shouldn’t have doubted.” He stepped back to allow Clint to exit the room with his duffle bag full of his new possessions, and the hard-pack case that held his bow, quiver, and arrows. That had been the best thing of all, Clint thought. 

“Director Fury wanted to wish you well,” Agent Coulson said as they walked to the elevator bank. 

“Uh, thanks,” Clint said. He’d met Director Fury a few days ago and the man had been imposing and frightening, and Clint was pretty sure he’d murdered people just for looking at him cross-eyed. Something about that level one-eyed gaze had flayed Clint, and he really hoped he didn’t have to meet up with him again. He figured that as a Director that he didn’t oversee the agents directly, so probably until the battle and Clint’s injury, that he hadn’t dealt with Director Fury very much. At least he hoped not. Maybe grown up him and Fury were buddies, and Fury was pissed as hell. Clint didn't think so. Fury just looked pissed as hell as his natural state of being. 

“I’ll tell you, for the record, that Fury wanted to have you start training as an agent right away.” Agent Coulson spoke so matter-of-factly that Clint took a moment to process the enormity of that statement. 

“What?” Clint said. “So I could stay?” He felt a burst of elation at that, and also a crushing disappointment. He’d actually been looking forward to going to school. 

“If you wanted, I’m sure Director Fury could make it happen,” Agent Coulson murmured. “I argued on your behalf for school.” He gave Clint a sad smile. “Life can be very long, and working this type of job can make it seem even longer. I think school will make you a better agent in the long run. Also, this is a very special school. Having you make friends there could be very good for the agency. So, you could even think of it as your first mission. A goodwill ambassadorship.” 

“This sounds like a tough school,” Clint muttered. 

“It’s extremely elite. I had to pull in a few favors just to get a foot in the door. The school's recruitment policies are…skewed." 

“Elite?” Clint asked. That didn’t sound good. If a bunch of rich kids went there, Clint had no hope of fitting in or ever finding friends. 

“Not that sort of elite,” Agent Coulson said. “SHIELD’s known about the school for a long time now, and we generally have a hands-off policy. The head professor is a good man.” He looked serious. “Not everybody has clearance to know about the school, Clint. You’ll understand when we get there. But, you should only talk to Director Fury and myself about anything other than your normal schoolwork.” He shifted into a proud smile. “I’m excited to have you attend, actually." 


	4. Chapter 4

The drive north was quiet, with the city gradually giving way to countryside. Clint began to realize that the school had to be very private and very exclusive. Clint felt a stab of apprehension, and hoped he wasn't going to have to deal with snobby kids. As the gates came into view, he glanced to Agent Coulson. “Are you sure this is being paid for?” he asked. 

“Yes. Don’t worry about that.” Agent Coulson said. He pulled the car through the gates as they swung automatically open, and down the long drive. He parked the car in front of a huge, elaborate mansion, and Clint craned his neck through the window to see the top. It had to be at least three, probably four, stories tall, and it was broad and deep. He could see people on the lawns in the distance, though, and even though the mansion’s atmosphere was majestic and imposing, the people seemed relaxed. 

“This is a school?” Clint asked. 

“Yes.” Agent Coulson got out of the car and Clint followed him. He retrieved his duffle bag and his hard case, and followed Agent Coulson up to the door. It swung open even before he could ring the doorbell, and a tall, slim woman with white hair starkly contrasting against her dark, flawless skin looked at them with a welcoming smile. “Mr. Coulson and Mr. Barton?” she asked. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Agent Coulson said politely. 

“I’m Ororo Munroe, please follow me. Professor Xavier is waiting for you in his office.” She gave Clint a well-disguised once-over, but he could feel the scrutiny. 

They followed her down a hallway and into a large room with enormous windows set so that the entire lawn outside could be viewed. A man in a wheelchair was sitting near a large fireplace, with a real fire crackling and smoke curling up the chimney. He had a notebook in his hands and was ticking off something with a pencil, but looked up and smiled at their entrance. He was bald and looked to be quite a bit older than Agent Coulson, and looked every bit the professor type.

“Phil Coulson, I presume,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, after speaking with you on the phone.” He held out his hand and Agent Coulson approached him and shook before stepping back. 

“The pleasure is mine, Professor.” He looked to Clint. “And this is Clint Barton, the student I told you about.”

Professor Xavier turned to study Clint. “I’m glad to meet you, Clint. Phil told me you have had some troubles lately, but that you’re a man of singular talents.”

Clint glanced uneasily to Agent Coulson. He wasn’t sure exactly how to answer that. Hadn’t most of it been top secret agency stuff? “I guess so, sir,” he finally decided on. 

Agent Coulson gave a polite cough. “I thought it might be best to wait until he was here before explaining the special nature of your institution.”

Professor Xavier nodded solemnly. “Best seen to be believed.” He focused his gaze on Clint again. “But first I would love to be able to see a demonstration of your remarkable skills. Phil tells me that you’ve excellent aim. You’ll be happy to learn that we have a range on the estate. You’ll be able to practice every day.”

Clint’s heart jumped at that. Agent Coulson had said something similar, but hearing it again meant that it was probably true. He hoped it was a good range. But at a ritzy place like this, he was sure it would probably be amazing. “Sure.” He paused, uncertain. “Should we go to the range now? I have a bow….”

Professor Xavier raised an eyebrow. “If you like,” he said. 

“Show them here,” Agent Coulson murmured. 

"Here?" Clint looked at the room. "But it's not long enough…."

"Ororo? The window?" Professor Xavier asked, with a hand flourish at the wall, and the woman moved, unhurried, to unlatch one of the windows. "What do you see out there that you might aim at?"

Clint looked. There were bushes and trees and he could aim at any of that, really, but what would it prove? "There's a birdhouse," he said. "I don't think any birds are in it right this moment." Clint, as a rule, didn't shoot at living things. But he'd take aim at mostly anything else. The birdhouse wasn't anywhere near the limit of his range, but it was far enough away to be impressive.

"That's fine. I know that birdhouse. The perch for the front is missing."

"Yes, sir," Clint said. He brought out his bow and a single arrow, which he nocked. He flicked his attention to the three adults just before making his final sight on his target. Agent Coulson looked calm and expectant. He _trusted_ that Clint would make the shot. Ms. Munroe looked interested, but unconcerned about the outcome. The Professor seemed like he might burst, either with excitement or something else. He looked like he wanted Clint to be successful very badly. 

Clint aimed and let the arrow release. He waited the long moment for it to fly to its target and embed its point in the side of the birdhouse, just below the opening, so it could act as a perch. 

"That's fantastic!" Ms. Munroe said as she leaned out the window to look at the result. 

"Mr. Coulson," said Professor Xavier, with a sly smile, "we have a deal." Then he turned to Clint. "Clint, I congratulate you. That was incredible. You have a wonderful talent."

"Thank you," Clint said. He glanced at Agent Coulson, and wondered fiercely what deal they could possibly have had. Agent Coulson offered him an encouraging look and shook his head ever so slightly. 

"Now, time for me to reveal my own talent," the Professor said. With great exaggeration, he lifted a finger to his temple, and suddenly Clint could _hear_ him in his head. _Clint, I want to welcome you to my school. It's for very special young people. Not quite like yourself, though your talent will allow you to blend in far better than you realize. This is a school for mutants. People born with special abilities. Like mine._

Clint put both his hands up to his head. "Wow," he said when the Professor's voice finally faded. 

"I'm a telepath," Professor Xavier said. "If I didn't know better, I might have thought you were one of us. Your ability really is quite extraordinary." He gave a swift nod to Ms. Monroe, and she nodded back . "Do you have any questions?"

Clint frowned. "I'm not a…."

"A mutant? No. You're definitely not. But that makes you no less wonderful."

Clint felt heat spread across his face. He was proud of his marksmanship, and he certainly liked to be praised for it, but something about the Professor was so sincere that it got right into the soft heart of him. He swiped at his face with one hand. "But if I'm not, and you have to be one to be a student, then why am I here?"

"An astute question," Professor Xavier said. "Simply for two reasons. You need to be here, for yourself, Clint. This is what you make of it. We have classes in math and science, art and history, just like any other school. But we also work on controlling our special skills and abilities. You could become even better than you already are."

Clint sucked in a breath. He was _great_ , and he knew it, like a fact, not a boast. But he could get better. Faster. Hit the mark farther out. "What's the other reason?"

Professor Xavier shifted his attention to Agent Coulson and then back again. "My students need you." He held his hands palm up, beseechingly. "You're exceptional. And yet not a mutant. Many of my students have lived through abuse and torment, and much fear, at the hands of non-mutants. They either hate what they are and wish to be normal, or they build up hate against non-mutants. I see a future where we can all coexist together."

Clint shook his head. "I'm just one kid," he said. "I just shoot really well. That's all."

"It's more than enough," Professor Xavier said. He smiled at Agent Coulson. "And you'll finally have an agent in place at my school." He chuckled. "Though, perhaps not the agent you ever envisioned."

"This is for Clint. Not SHIELD. You know that's true," Agent Coulson said mildly. 

"I do. And that's why I offered him a place here."

"But I can't do that stuff that you want," Clint protested. He really did want to stay. It sounded like a dream come true, and Clint wasn't exactly sure what mutants were, but they couldn't be any more strange than the people in the circus, so he figured that wouldn't be an issue. But Clint couldn't help anyone who was hating others. Or themselves. 

"Clint," Professor Xavier said, "just your being here is the stuff that I want. Ororo? Why don't you show Clint his room. Mr. Coulson, will you be staying for dinner?"

Coulson shook his head. "I have to return to the city. But I've promised Clint that I would visit regularly. If you could inform me of the necessary scheduling, I will make arrangements."

"Absolutely. It was a pleasure to meet you."

"And you, sir. Your reputation precedes you."

Professor Xavier grinned. "Only to the top echelon of agents in your organization, Agent Couslon. And even then, I'm the foremost expert. Not a prime example."

"As you say," Agent Coulson agreed. 

~~~

Leaving Clint behind at the school was one of the hardest things Phil had ever done. In a week, he'd grown just as fond of Clint the teenager as he had Clint the adult. But he felt the school truly was the best place for him. For the time being. 

Phil definitely wanted Clint to come back to SHIELD, and it was only a matter of time before the Avengers returned from their current engagement. Then, he would turn Clint's problem over to Tony and Bruce, and see if they couldn't resolve it. Phil really did want the old Clint back. The rest of the Avengers would also want that. Some more desperately than others. 

He hoped they wouldn't be gone much longer, though he knew a dark dread at facing them when they did return. Sending Clint away to school may not have been the solution that any of the others would agree with. Phil didn't see how there could have been any other option. Given the complexity and dangerousness of working with the tablet, there was a very real chance that it might be a long time before Clint could be turned back, or perhaps never. Phil hated to admit that possibility, because it was awful, but if it turned out to be the case, then the best place for Clint was school. And Phil had found the safest school for someone of Clint's extraordinary nature that he could. 

He thought back to Clint's questioning just before leaving him at the school. "Deal?" Clint had asked, with a hint of anger, like he was prepared to hear something terrible. 

"Just for you to attend the school. Xavier may be the most skilled telepath on the planet. He's going to try to help you recover your memories, even if we can't ever get you back to your old self."

"That's it?" Clint had asked. 

"Basically. Xavier wanted to meet you first, considering you'll be spending so much time among the other students. I think he wanted to…size you up, so to speak."

"And I passed."

"Of course," Phil had said. He had never expected any other outcome. It was nearly inconceivable that Xavier wouldn't have wanted Clint's attendance. The man could see into the very heart of people, Phil had never doubted that Clint would be welcomed with open arms.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint realized he was happy one morning, five weeks into his new life at Xavier’s School, and it caught him by surprise to the point where he forgot to eat the rest of his scrambled eggs. He sat there with his fork in his hand and felt almost like he might cry. From happiness. 

He was still more than a little unsure about _some_ of the teachers. Mainly Professor Xavier. Clint wasn't exactly comfortable with having someone who could pluck your thoughts out of your head, although he supposed it wasn't exactly all that different from Madam Zarna, back at the circus. She's always had the _most_ unnerving stare, and she'd seemed to know exactly what Clint was planning to do. He'd never heard _her_ inside his own head, though. She obviously had better manners than Professor Xavier, did. Still, Clint couldn't really _do_ anything about Professor Xavier, other than run away, and Clint didn't want to do that, at least not yet. For right now, he was _happy_ with the situation. 

He’d been sleeping every night in safety, for _hours_ , and he wasn’t cold, nor hot. There were always more blankets when he wanted them, and the sheets were cleaned each week. He thought he’d never stop appreciating the scent of clean bedding. His door locked at night, and if anyone needed to talk to him, they actually _knocked_. No one made veiled threats about his place at the school, precarious or otherwise. He didn’t have to _earn his keep_. He was here to learn, and that was another source of joy. 

He had five classes with real schoolwork, and Clint _loved_ it, when he didn’t hate it. It was hard work, and he struggled. The others seemed to take everything in as easy as breathing, and Clint wanted to hit things when he struggled with concepts and homework. But he was learning. 

He'd never realized before that he could actually like school. He remembered the schools he used to go to, way back when he was really just a little kid, and they had seemed dusty and spiteful. The classrooms were old and worn, with airless rooms stuffed with too many students, with teachers that didn't care, and other kids that started fights. Here, it was different, and Clint found that he was excited, and that he was _smart_. 

There was _food_ at every meal, and snacks, and if Clint wanted to eat in the middle of the night, there was food in the kitchen waiting for him then, too. It wasn’t junk food, or only out of tins, either. He could eat fruit any time he wanted, and hot food out of an oven. He’d eaten foods in the past several weeks that he didn’t even know had existed. 

But best of all, he had friends. Three of them were in the kitchen with him right now, eating breakfast. They were watching the small television set in the corner on the counter, but they were friends. Clint squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe, because he could hear them scraping forks against their plates, and slurping milk out of glasses, and teasing each other, and pushing the chairs backwards to get second helpings. 

“Clint, you okay? You look like you’re about to throw up,” Ursula asked. She had paused on her way to the sink and Clint opened his eyes to see her worried expression. She had dark red hair and green eyes, and something about her always made Clint feel safe. She was his closest friend at the school, and he appreciated that more than anything.

“Fine,” he said. “Food went down the wrong way.”

“Do you need—" She wiggled her free hand and Clint shook his head. Clint had finally found out what all the talk about mutants had meant. Practically everyone at the school was a mutant, leaving Clint to feel a bit out of place, but not too much. He was pretty sure that a lot of the performers at the circus had been mutants, a circus was probably a great place to hide if you could do fantastic things or looked different.

Ursula had the gift to heal, but it was a terrible strain on her, and even minor injuries could knock her for a loop. Unlike other students, some of whom came to the school to control frightening, dangerous powers, hers was one for true good. It was such an important ability that she was more frustrated that she couldn’t do more with it. As yet she could only help those with injuries that would heal shortly anyway, not with anything real

“I’m fine now,” he said. 

She smiled. “Finish up or we’ll be late for science And you know how Dr. McCoy hates that.”

"Yeah," Clint said as he shoveled in the rest of his eggs. His mornings were the busiest, and he wouldn't have time to eat again until lunch, so he needed to not skip breakfast. 

Afternoons were his favorite. He spent most of them practicing at the range, which had turned out to be as fantastic as he'd imagined it because Professor Xavier never did anything by half-measure. On some afternoons, he occasionally visited with Agent Coulson. He managed to come visit at least twice a week and Clint appreciated it every time. It was sort of like having family. Or at least it meant someone who cared about him. 

He didn't even talk about SHIELD stuff, generally, as if the only reason he might visit would be because he wanted to recruit Clint. Or fix him, so that he could be a grown-up again. Clint sometimes pretended that Agent Coulson did come just because he cared about Clint. Not that other stuff. Sometimes he even managed to believe it. 

After classes were over, Clint stopped by Ursula's room. "I'm headed to the range," he said. "Want to come?"

"Nah. I'm going down to work with Dr. McCoy." Ursula unrolled a poster from a tube. "Help me put this up?"

"Sure." Clint took one edge of it and held it to the wall where Ursula indicated. He frowned at the poster. "What is this?" He didn't recognize anyone on the poster. "A band?"

Ursula laughed as she taped the corners. "I forget you came from a time warp! It's the Avengers, silly. Mightiest heroes ever. They saved the world."

"Really?" Clint pulled back to look at the poster. "How'd they save the world?"

"It was last year in the city. There was an alien invasion. They fought the aliens and won. Iron Man went through the portal they'd created to bring all their fighters here and he blew them up." Ursula fidgeted, and Clint caught the movement. 

"You like him!" he exclaimed. "You've got a crush."

"Maybe," Ursula said, and blushed a deep pink. "He's okay."

Clint grinned, but didn't pursue it. He didn't need to tease Ursula. "And the rest of them?"

Ursula tapped at the images on the poster as she spoke. "Hulk, who is super strong, and Black Widow. She's the only woman and she's totally awesome, but we don't know hardly anything about her. Iron Man. Of course. He's really Tony Stark, the inventor. He invented the suit, and now he goes and saves lives. I think a couple of other guys, nobody knows much about them yet. But its all hush-hush after that. Except for Iron Man, because Tony Stark is famous and really rich. And Captain America."

"I know him," Clint said. "I thought he died in World War Two?"

"No!" Ursula latched onto Clint's arm. "They _found_ him in the ice and he was still alive. He's gorgeous. But he's Captain American, you know? Iron Man is more fun."

Clint laughed. "Sure. That's great. We need heroes to keep us safe." He hefted his hard-case. "Catch you later. I need to practice." He wondered if Agent Coulson knew any of the Avengers. Probably. SHIELD seemed to know everyone a little bit.

~~~ 

“I brought you this,” Agent Coulson said, and he handed a slim black cellphone to Clint. It was the flip phone sort, and it had nothing on the outside but smooth plastic.

They were sitting outside on the rose garden terrace, which provided some privacy courtesy of the vegetation, though they spoke in low voices since voices carried. It was a warm, sunny Thursday afternoon, and the chill of winter had slipped away. Clint had on a bulky navy-blue sweatshirt that Coulson had brought him two weeks ago, that he wore just about everywhere. It wasn’t often that he’d been given a real gift. It had an embroidered SHIELD symbol, very small, on the upper left area, with the all capital letters AGENT just below, in black. 

“Thanks,” Clint said as he turned it over to look at it. 

“For emergencies. I should have given you one sooner. It isn’t a regular cellphone. If you open it, it will immediately dial me, and send a duplicate message to a monitoring computer. Try it now, so you can see it work.”

Clint flipped it open and the screen inside immediately showed that it was dialing, but it made neither sound nor light. A moment later, Agent Coulson’s phone started to vibrate, and he clicked it open. He spoke into it. “Just a test, Jarvis. To show it worked.” He ended the call, and the phone in Clint’s hand turned off. “It’s set to be silent and to keep lights off, so it won’t attract attention.”

“Okay,” Clint said. It sounded like a good idea, but he wasn’t sure why he would even need it. School was really safe.

“Just in case,” Agen Coulson said. He glanced at his watch. “I need to get going.” He looked pleased. “You’re doing so well here, Clint. Professor Xavier sends me updates, as you know.”

“Thank you,” Clint said, and he rubbed his hands together. He’d been working on his courage to bring this subject up. “Sir? Before you go. We haven’t talked about…me. What happened. Who I was. You said you’d tell me when I got out of the hospital for a while. And I’ve been out.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “And wanted to know about my…team. Are they back yet? Will I ever meet them? If I’m not grown-up? Do they know what happened to me?”

Agent Coulson blinked, the only indicator that he didn’t want to go into the subject, but he said, very softly, “They aren’t back from their mission yet, to be truthful. We’re a little worried. Usually missions don’t last this long, and we don’t have a way to communicate with them.”

Clint fell his stomach drop. “No,” he said, but there was also a strange sense of relief. If his team was still _gone_ then they hadn’t been ignoring him, or thought him beneath their attentions. They just weren’t available. “What can we do?”

Agent Coulson sighed. “Nothing. That’s the hard part. There’s no way to even try to get a message to them, or a rescue attempt. Their mission is very…well, it’s complicated. There are a lot of things I can’t explain about it. But they aren’t back.” He gave Clint a small smile. “Honestly, they don’t even know about you yet. What happened. When they get back, I know they’ll all be very upset and concerned.”

Clint nodded, and didn’t try to speak over the lump still lodged in his throat. 

Agent Coulson stood up and so did Clint, and then he wrapped his arms around Clint and gave him a quick hug. He’d started doing it as a way to say good-bye after his third visit, weeks ago, and Clint thought it was odd, because Clint wasn’t a child, he probably was too old for hugs, but he liked it anyway. He never had gotten a lot of hugs in his life, and getting one now, well, he looked forward to it, even if he didn’t like it when Agent Coulson left. 

“Be good,” Agent Coulson said as he released him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I have a long assignment coming up, so I may not see you for a week, possibly two.”

“Okay,” Clint said, glad to know. If Agent Coulson didn’t show up to visit, it was because he was on a mission, not because he didn’t care.   
After he’d left, Clint slipped the phone into his pocket. He headed back inside, intending to go to his room. He had homework and that was a good thing. He needed a distraction. He also realized that Agent Coulson had neatly sidestepped telling him very much about anything. He would have to ask again the next time. 

As Clint passed through the corridors he paused. He could hear crying. He listened intently and followed the source of the sound, and pushed open the door to a small closet set under a staircase. It was one of those dusty areas with an oddly shaped triangle door that lead into a space that shrunk as the stairs descended. 

“Hey,” Clint said as he realized there was a girl on the floor, pressed up against the back wall. The space held a pillow, a tire iron, a weird looking pink vase, one dirty sneaker, and a strange array of plates, but there was enough room for him to crowd in. “Are you okay?” 

The girl hiccupped and a tea cup appeared mid-air. Then it fell to the ground and cracked. She started sobbing again.

Remembering the hug from Agent Coulson, Clint scooted next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s gonna to be okay,” he told her. “I’m gonna help, whatever it is. Okay?”

The girl stopped sobbing for a moment and looked at Clint and nodded. She was a few years younger than he, and small and slim, with wide-set eyes, and short-cut straight, black hair. 

“I’m Clint,” he said. 

She gave a small, trembling smile. “Kia,” she said. Then she hiccupped again and a pair of metal scissors popped into the closet, again in the middle of the air. Clint moved his leg before they plummeted to the floor and stabbed him. Kia saw it happen and started crying again. 

“Shhh,” Clint soothed. “No harm done. I’m fine.” He looked at the items in the small space. “Teleporter?” he asked.

Kia nodded against his shoulder, which was now slightly soggy. 

“Every time you hiccup, something else appears?” he asked. 

She nodded again. 

“Did you try holding your breath?”

She nodded a third time. 

“Drinking a glass of water?”

There was a pause, but then she shook her head. 

“Come on, let’s try that.” Clint pulled her gently out of the closet and held her hand as he walked her to the closest bathroom. She hiccupped once more in the hallway, and a brightly colored scarf fluttered down to land on Clint’s head. Kia giggled. Clint wrapped the scarf around his neck with a flourish. 

“Nice,” he said. He wanted to ask where the scarf came from and if it could be returned, but he didn’t want Kia to start crying again, so he waited. “Come on.” He knocked on the bathroom door and then walked in. He closed the door behind them. Kia didn’t need anyone else to see her having a problem. He ran the tap and pulled out a paper cup from the stockpile, filled it and handed it over. “Drink really slowly. You have to reset your diaphragm.”

Kia nodded and took the cup and kept her gaze on Clint as she took very small sips. She hiccupped once more and a goldfish appeared, flapping in the air. Clint laughed, but he was ready for the suddenly appearing items now, and he caught the fish. Then he ran more water into another cup and put the fish into it. It wasn’t ideal, but the fish should be okay for a short time. 

Kia handed the cup back to Clint and he filled it again and handed it back. She drank it down very slowly. 

“Better?” he asked. 

“I think so,” she said. 

Clint thought for a moment. “I have to do some homework. Why don’t you come with me and stay while I do it. Just in case. If they come back again, I have more ways to get rid of them.”

Kia nodded. Clint gestured to the fish and the scarf. “Can you return these? Do you know where they came from?”

“It’s Toby’s fish. I recognize it by the little dark patch on its tail. But I don’t know about the other things. When I move stuff by accident, I don’t always know where it comes from. But it should all be from the mansion. My range isn’t that far.”

“Okay. Let’s return the fish to Toby. We can tell Professor Xavier about the other stuff, and he can figure out where it all goes.”

Clint led them back into the hall. Toby was another student, about Clint's age, and he was only a few doors away from Clint’s room, since they were both in the boys’ wing. They had a few classes together, and for the little interaction they'd had, had gotten along well. Clint knocked on Toby’s door, and Toby answered. “Sorry about this,” Clint said as he handed the paper cup with the goldfish over to him. “Slight mix-up.”

Toby looked at Kia and shrugged. “It happens.” Toby could make things explode just by thinking about it, and Clint had heard about some disastrous training sessions, so if anyone understood about accidents, he did. 

After Toby, Clint took Kia to his own room. He left the door open so she felt that she could leave whenever she wanted, and he sat at his desk. She settled on the floor with her back against the bed. “Do you want a book?” he asked. "I don’t have a lot, but I’ve got some to choose from.” Agent Coulson had given him three books, one contained the stories of Robin Hood, one about the life of Annie Oakley, and another more technical one on archery. Clint loved having them, and he liked that Agent Coulson had thought enough about the subject matter to give him books that he'd be interested in reading, although the Robin Hood one was written in a bit of fusty language that Clint found difficult to start. 

“Nah,” Kia said and she scrunched her face up for a moment, and a book popped into her hands. “I’ve got mine.”

“That’s so useful,” Clint said and sighed with a touch of envy. “I’m going to do my homework now. When you’re hungry, we’ll go to the kitchen and get a snack.”

“Okay,” Kia said. Then after a long moment, she added, “Clint? Thank you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the team is back!

Later that night there was a knock on Clint's door. He had been curled up in bed, drifting off, and it took a lot of effort to crawl out. Sleepily, Clint opened the door and found Toby standing there. 

"That was nice," he said. "What you did for Kia. Earlier."

Clint yawned, he couldn’t help it, but he smiled at Toby. "Thanks. I couldn't let her cry."

Toby walked further into the room, and slowly shut the door behind him. Then he leaned against it. "A couple of the other kids said you were a spy. That you weren't one of us." Toby made a face. "But I saw you shooting the other day. So you have perfect aim?"

Clint shrugged. He was very uncomfortable with this. He hadn't tried to hide the fact that he wasn't a mutant, but he also didn't go around talking about how human he was, either. Rumors had sprung up on both sides. Clint wondered if that was somehow part of Professor Xavier's plan, or if that was a surprise. "I'm not a spy," he said, "but I'm not a mutant, either. Not that I don't wish I couldn't be one. Because it looks really fantastic. But I'm not that lucky. I'm just me."

Toby shook his head. "Really? Not a mutant. With aim like that." 

He seemed more curious than anything else, and not at all in Clint's face, which he'd expected. Clint had wondered if there was going to be some rough 'em up consequences to being at a mutant school and not being a mutant. But Toby wasn't being hostile at all. More like, he was being…friendly.

"Really," Clint said. "And it isn't a secret, so you can tell whomever you want."

Toby tilted his head and gave Clint an enigmatic smile. "I've got a different secret."

"Like what?" Clint asked, and was surprised when Toby pushed off the door and caught him face-to-face, and pressed a brief kiss to the corner of his lips. 

"Like this," Toby said, pulling back. "Good?"

"Yeah," Clint said. He'd grown up in the circus, and he'd realized that he was quite a bit more mature than the other kids at the school. Partly he'd been embarrassed over it, because he didn't fit in, but partly he also felt…odd. Kissing Toby was really nice, and Clint couldn't think of any good reason to stop, except he just knew it wasn't right. There was something he couldn't remember. Like the door pass codes and the pizza he'd been craving that one night. Clint realized that he'd never asked Agent Coulson if he was married. Probably not, otherwise, it should have been mentioned a lot sooner. But Clint suspected Agent Coulson played everything close to the chest. Clint could definitely be married. He hoped not. 

"Toby," Clint started to say, when the lamp in the corner of his room exploded into a trillion little dust particles. Clint turned to stare at the little pile of dust that used to be his reading lamp. "Uh—"

Toby backpedaled, hands up. "Crap," he said. "I haven't lost control like that in months. I swear." He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and stared at Clint. 

"Maybe we better not," Clint said, and thought he'd probably never ever try that again with Toby. This time it was only a lamp. Clint hoped that Toby never wanted to explode him into nothing but powder. 

"Yeah," Toby said sadly. He nervously rubbed his hands down the thighs of his pants. "Are you scared of me now?" he asked. 

"Not too much," Clint said. "It's just a lamp. Wasn't even that nice of a lamp."

"What if I had hurt you?" Toby asked, and Clint could tell this was about something more than it seemed. 

"It would have been an accident," Clint said. "I'd rather not get exploded, though. If you could manage that."

"So it really doesn't bother you that I could blow you up at any moment?" Toby asked, his voice becoming harsh. 

Clint shook his head, and leaned back in to Toby, and went back to kissing him lightly on the cheek, and then when nothing exploded, again on the mouth. "Nah," he said, breaking the kiss. "I've been here for months. You haven't blown anyone up yet, and if you were going to, I think it'd be Whitlock, don't you?"

Toby laughed into the kisses that he shared with Clint. "He's awful! He _deserves_ to be exploded. Goes to show not _all_ mutants are awesome."

Clint pulled away from Toby. "But explosions aside. I don't think we can do this anymore, because I…think there's someone I'm already sort of…with." It felt right, even if Clint had no idea who he was with. He did have someone, and he really shouldn't be kissing anyone else until he figured that out. 

"Oh," Toby said. "Why didn't you say?" He gestured between them. "I wouldn't have—"

"I sort of don't remember everything I should," Clint said.

Toby took one of Clint's hands and pulled him over to the bed, and they both sat down. "Amnesia?" he asked. 

"Something like that," Clint said. "That's why I'm here. I'm not who I used to be."

Toby curled up against Clint's side. "If I had a different power, I'd help you. But exploding things doesn’t help with that kind of stuff." 

"I know. Thanks anyway."

"You're sure you aren't a mutant?"

"Positive."

"That's still okay," Toby said. "You don't have to be, if you aren't."

~~~

A few days later, Clint realized that he had formed a little team of his own when he found his room well occupied after dinner. While he sat at his desk, working through a list of math problems, he heard a faint knock on his door, and then Kia slipped into the room. 

She settled down on the bed, reading her book, and eating jelly beans that she teleported to herself one by one. 

"Practice," she told him when he'd raised an eyebrow at the jelly beans. "They're from a bag next to my bed. Professor Xavier wanted me to try small, specific things one by one." She concentrated for a moment and a green jelly bean popped into the air. She caught it and then threw it into a small pile that she didn't eat. "I don't like the green, yellow, or black ones. I keep trying to bring over the red, pink, and purple ones. The red ones are my favorite. Pink and purple after that, but I can't control it yet." 

"You'll get it," he said. "The practice is good. How can you know the color before you…." He flapped a hand to represent the teleportation event. 

Kia sighed as another jelly bean popped into the air. This one was yellow and went into the pile as well. "That's the problem. I don't. I can tell the shape—sort of like a shadow on the wall. Usually the weight." She giggled. "When I get that wrong, I could bring a toy truck or a real one."

Clint chuckled. "Sounds like that one already happened."

"Kind of," Kia said. "It was actually pretty impressive because I usually can't do things that big. But I wanted my brother's toy truck really, really badly. I was exhausted for days afterward, and my parents had to call Professor Xavier. He got someone else to get the truck out of the living room. But I can't do color yet."

A sharp rap on the door brought Clint's attention there. "Come in," he called.

Toby walked in, pulling a desk chair behind him, and gave Kia a nod. "Hey," he said. "Math?"

"Working on it right now."

"Yeah. I need help." Toby set the chair near the desk and removed his folded, crumbled papers from his back pocket. "I thought we could try together. I got halfway through it and then it got hard."

"Sure," Clint said, and hunched over the paperwork to see if he'd gotten farther than Toby or not. 

Twenty minutes later, Ursula knocked on the door. She'd brought Amelia, another girl her age and one of Clint's other close friends. "Hi," Amelia said. "Clara had to study for an exam. She said she'd come by later." 

Clint nodded. Amelia and Clara were sisters, so Clara tagged along a lot, though she was really closer to Kia in age. 

Ursula said, "We missed you the other day at dinner."

Clint waggled his right hand, where two adhesive bandages covered the fourth and fifth fingers. He'd accidentally cut himself and had needed the slices cleaned out, although it hadn't been deep enough for stitches. "Almost good as new," he said. "I need to practice juggling more. I'm a little rusty."

"You could practice with bean bags and _not_ knives," Ursula suggested. She flopped down on the throw rug at the foot of the bed and rolled over before lifting her legs and stretching her back. 

"When you stop doing gymnastics, I'll stop juggling," Clint said. He knew that wouldn't happen. Ursula loved gymnastics, even if she was technically too tall to be competitive at it. Professor Xavier indulged anyone who had any athletic energies, and he had quite a few trainers coming and going for students with different abilities. Clint didn't just have a range to practice in. He actually had a coach that came a few times a week to work on things. Of course, Clint was already far better than the coach, but it helped to have an outside eye on his form, and someone paying attention to a training program that would push Clint to get even better. 

"As if," Ursula said. She stood up and walked over to Clint. "You should have asked," she said as she put her small hands around his fingers and closed her eyes. Clint felt a rush of warmth in his hands and a terrible itch at the site of his injury, and then it faded away, and Ursula sagged a bit but then straightened. 

"Thank you," Clint said. "I know it makes you tired. I didn't want to—"

"Not a big deal. I need to practice. Small stuff is good. I know I can do it."

Clint peeled the bandages away and wiggled his fingers, amazed to see the scabs were gone and his skin whole again. Next to him, Toby made a small noise and Clint looked to see an expression on his face of mixed jealousy and desperate longing. Clint rolled his eyes dramatically and shoved Toby so that his chair rocked but didn't tip over. "Suck it up," he said. "Someday I'm going to need something blown up, and you know who I'm going to call."

Toby looked pleased, but he played along. "The Hulk?" he said. 

Clint laughed. "Totally. But, you know, if I wanted something exploded really fast."

Toby pretended to think really hard. "Iron Man?" 

"Absolutely," Clint said. "I'll just get on my Avengers hot line and they'll dash over, and we'll go blow stuff up." Clint sobered and gave the small group in his room the slightest, most serious of his smiles. "Really, I'd call you guys. If I needed help."

They each smiled back. Then Ursula blew a puff of air haughtily, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. "If I needed help, I'd totally call Whitlock. Forget you."

Everyone dissolved into laughter. Clint knew he should probably feel badly about picking on Whitlock, but the guy was such a stuck-up know-it-all. 

 

~~~

“And the newest class of trainees?” Director Fury asked. 

“Four washouts so far,” Phil said. He had a list of the names and passed that over the table to Fury. “But the remaining candidates seem solid. I expect the rest will complete the training.”

“Good.” Fury raised his attention to Maria Hill. “The Altera Mission?”

“Aborted. Bad intel. We’ve gone back to surveillance only." Hill passed over a folder which Fury also didn’t touch. 

“That’s everything for now,” Fury said. “Agent Coulson, a word before you go.”

Hill gave Phil an unreadable look. It wasn’t uncommon to stay back for a private chat now and then, but curiosity was human nature and Phil suspected that Hill wanted to know what the subject matter was. “Sir?” he asked once Hill was out of the room. 

“Update on Agent Barton.”

“He’s doing very well at school and has made some friends.”

Fury glared at him and Coulson understood that Fury couldn't care less if Clint was getting along well or not. “And his training?” Fury clarified.

“Underway. He’s training as much as he ever had. Considering his physical stature, he’s every bit the marksman we are accustomed to. His range has increased even in this short span.” Coulson cleared his throat and Fury narrowed his gaze. “If I were to venture a guess, I’d say that well balanced meals and enough rest may accelerate his training capabilities.”

“Point taken.” Fury leaned forward. “But how is he?”

“Resilient, sir, considering the circumstances."

“That would be the Agent Barton I know,” Fury said. “How about the research to return him to normal?”

“Ongoing, sir.” Phil did not add that it was disappointing. The Tablet of Time was a specialized weapon. It seemed to be more than capable of killing things, which did no good. 

“Has he recovered any memories?” Fury’s attention wavered for a moment and Phil could guess that information was being relayed along his ear bud. As far as Phil knew, Fury never took the equipment out. Perhaps not even when showering. At least, that was the rumor.

“Not that I am aware of, though he often shows intuitive understanding of the present day that would not be explained easily otherwise. I haven’t yet discussed many particulars about his situation with him. Given that the Avengers haven’t yet returned from Asgard, the need wasn’t pressing.”

Fury fixed a grim glare on Phil. “Consider the need pressing, then. Intel indicates the Avengers just returned. There’s been an eyes-on sighting at the location they left from.” Fury sat up straighter. “You probably have ten minutes to get to Stark Tower, before they get there.”

Phil nodded, but he could feel adrenaline start leaching into his system. He’d been preparing for this moment. Having the Avengers back was excellent—the city needed their protection. The world needed their heroes. But it also meant that everything would change, for Clint. “Thank you, sir,” Phil said, even as he moved for the door.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve learns what happened; Clint finally learns what team he's on!

His vision went from white to dark, and then it shaded in again and Steve could see. He could feel his teammates at his back, everyone tense, because they had returned to the exact point they’d gone from, and it had been a long five days of fighting in Asgard. Steve had expected to see debris still on the streets, because there had been a lot of damage, but with unusual efficiency, the street was clean, and new construction had taken over. 

“Report,” he snapped. 

“We’re clear,” replied Natasha, crisply. “No threats.”

Tony echoed their safety. "Scans are negative, Cap."

“This can’t be right,” said Bruce. “We weren’t even gone a week. How did it all get fixed so quickly?”

“Time does not always run smoothly between the realms,” Thor said, from somewhere to Steve’s right. "It is possible we have been gone for longer than our own experiences."

Steve’s attention had been drawn to the spot where he’d last seen Coulson crouched over Clint. He had been okay, Coulson had nodded, and now that Steve was becoming more sure that they had arrived safely home, he wanted to get back to the tower as quickly as possible. 

“Looks good,” said Tony. “Let’s head home.” He offered a hand to Natasha. “Who’s coming with me?” Steve stepped in close to Tony, and Tony picked up Natasha with one arm and Steve with the other. “Five minutes and we’ll be landing on the roof,” Tony declared. “Thor, you get Bruce!”

“It will be a pleasure to ferry us home. We are all in dire need of rest.” Thor wrapped an arm around Bruce, and twirled his hammer to set them into flight. 

“It’s been at least a few weeks, Cap,” Natasha said as they lifted over the area, her quick eyes taking in the construction and recovery. 

Steve spent a moment to accept that. He hated to lose time. He had already lost so much. But to have left Clint behind for weeks felt terrible. All that wasted time. Steve didn’t want to waste a single moment of it. But, at least it would mean that Clint would be healed from the previous battle. Steve had seen him get knocked to the ground at the last. Only Thor’s desperate plea to go save Asgard had kept Steve from going to his side. That, and Coulson’s assurance.

“And here we are!” Tony announced as he dropped to the balcony off the roof. The machinery started to pull away at his Iron Man suit as he moved forward. “That feels really good to get off,” Tony moaned. 

Steve gave Natasha a quick glance and she actually gave him a thumbs up, and he dashed away. If Clint weren’t on a mission, which Steve desperately hoped he wasn’t, then he would be in the tower. Waiting. “Jarvis?” Steve asked as he ran. “What room is Clint in?”

It took Jarvis a moment before he answered, his words stuttered as Steve ran down a hallway and he caught snatches of its voice from different speakers. “Agent Barton is not currently in residence, sir.”

Steve frowned. Damn. They had sent him on a mission. He reached his apartment door and flung it open. He moved inside, and was suddenly aware that it smelled odd. Disused. Steve glanced to the kitchen area. A bowl was in the sink. The same bowl that Steve had used just before the battle. He turned and spotted the throw blanket askew on the sofa. Just as it had fallen when they’d rushed to assemble. Prior to the battle. Worry wormed its way through his chest, and constricted about his heart. 

“Jarvis—"

“Agent Barton is currently assigned to another location, sir,” Jarvis said smoothly. “He has not returned to the Tower since your departure seventy-seven days ago, but I assure you that I have had some contact with him and can vouch for his safety as of nine days prior. Agent Coulson has advised that he would prefer to debrief you on the situation himself."

Steve exhaled. Clint was fine. Well, maybe not fine. But he was obviously on a mission. And Steve had been gone for over two months. Which made sense. SHIELD wasn’t going to wait around for the Avengers to return if Clint was needed in the field somewhere. Coulson was on top of the situation, obviously, and that made Steve feel better. Coulson was the epitome of organization and cool-headedness. 

“Sir, Agent Coulson has entered the Tower and is requesting to meet with you. He will arrive in three minutes.”

Damn, Steve thought. Coulson was on the mark. He supposed that after two months of being missing, that he owed the man a lengthy debriefing about what happened in Asgard. Although from Steve’s perspective, it wasn’t even a full week. More importantly, Coulson also owed him an immediate explanation about Clint's whereabouts. Steve backed out of his apartment, and decided to meet Coulson halfway. 

~~~

Phil Coulson saw Steve striding toward him in the hallway, and slowed to a stop. He had not wanted to conduct this conversation like this. "Steve," he said as the man got closer. 

"Phil," Steve said. "We just got back."

"And you're looking for Clint," Phil said.

"Yes," Steve said, his eyes bright. "We thought we were gone for five days, but Jarvis said its been over two months."

"A lot has happened since you've been gone," Phil said. "We should sit for a moment. There are some things I need to tell you." Phil had considered his words many times, and he had never found a way to reveal what had happened without causing heartache. He'd played it through dozens of times. 

Steve took a step back, instantly going on his guard. "Jarvis said Clint was safe. This is something else?"

"Somewhat. Please, let's sit." Phil guided Steve to the closest room, some kind of meeting room, with a table and hard chairs. "Clint is safe. He's fine. Mostly fine," Phil amended. "Actually, in some ways, he's better." Phil thought of Clint's damaged eardrums, and the world of silence that he often lived in, and how he now could hear perfectly again. 

"Mostly fine?" Steve asked. "Better?"

"I need you to stay calm," Phil said. "There have been some developments."

Steve stiffened at that, his eyes going round and huge, and his jaw clenching. 

Phil kept speaking very smoothly. "Clint was affected by the Tablet of Time. And it transformed him. He lost a few years. Literally. It made him younger."

"Younger?" Steve asked. "What?"

"He's seventeen," Phil said. "Healthy and safe, and I think maybe actually happy. But he's seventeen, and he doesn't remember any of us."

Steve sat there, breathing loudly for a long moment. "He doesn't remember?" Then he quickly added, "I want to see him. Where is he? _How_ is he?"

"I'm going to take you to him," Phil said. "But first you need to shower, and change into regular clothes. And wait until this evening. I usually visit then. I can give you the entire debriefing in the car while we travel."

Steve shook his head. "Where is he? Why can't we go now?"

Phil actually had to smile at that a little. "He's at school. He's in classes all morning. What else should I have done with a teenager?"

Steve returned the smile, but only for a fleeting moment. "He hasn't turned back? Do we know how to make that happen?"

"We're working on it. Now that Tony and Bruce are back, I'm sure more headway will be made." Phil paused. "Steve, I haven't told him about…you. Or the team. He knows there is a lot of information that he doesn’t have yet. But he's done very well at school, and without knowing when the team might return, I let it slide. Really. He's done so, so well. He can hear perfectly again. Becoming young again, his old injuries just vanished."

Steve stared at Phil with wonderment. "He got his hearing back," he repeated, as if it were a foreign phrase that he was trying to make sense of. "No more hearing aids?"

"Yes."

Steve stood up. "I want to know everything that's happened. But first, I'm going to shower. What time—"

"It's over an hour drive. We'll leave at two. We'll catch him before dinner."

Steve nodded. "Right." 

~~~ 

"Clint," Professor Xavier called and Clint dropped his arm. He'd finished lunch early and had gone down to the range to get in extra practice before his coach had arrived for their afternoon training. 

"Yes, Professor?" Clint felt a strange anticipation build in him. Professor Xavier sometimes dropped by the range to check up on his progress, but usually he just rolled in silently, said a few encouraging words, and left when he had other things to do. This time, he certainly didn't look like he was coming just to observe. 

"I made arrangements for your coach to attend tomorrow instead of today," Professor Xavier said. "You have other visitors coming this afternoon. They'll be arriving shortly."

Clint smiled. "Agent Coulson?" He'd been absent for over two weeks, just like he'd warned. "Visitors?" Clint asked. "Who else?"

Professor Xavier shook his head. "I'll let Agent Coulson explain his guest to you." He made a sympathetic gesture. "If you need someone to talk with, later, you know my door is always open to you."

"Is my— Is the team— Are they back?" Clint asked, sudden hope beat against his ribcage like a sparrow seeking freedom. 

Professor Xavier smiled. "You have just enough time to change out of your training attire, if you hurry, Mr. Barton."

"Right, thanks! Excuse me!" Clint hurried to put his bow and materials away safely and quickly, and then he sprinted for his room. If his team was _finally_ back, then Clint didn't want them to see him dirty and scruffy and sweating.

He passed Ursula in the hallway as he ran. 

"Where are you going?" she asked as she ran to catch up. 

"My team!" Clint said. "I have a meeting, and I have to change. I think my team is back!"

"Whoa! Seriously?" Ursula kept pace with him and they skidded to a stop at his door. 

Clint flung off his shirt and headed for the bathroom. "I need to shower!" He rushed to the bathroom, hurried through a shower, and emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist. Ursula had left a sticky note on his desk that read GOOD LUCK, and it made him feel good to see it, but he didn't have time to dawdle. He pulled on the nicest pants he owned and a shirt with a collar and buttons, and spent two minutes checking his hair and un-smudging his dress shoes. Then he skidded into the hallway, took a deep breath, and forced himself to walk downstairs. 

When he got there, Ms. Monroe was waiting in the foyer. Clint hadn't spent much time with her, but he often saw her in the hallways, as she went about her own tasks. She seemed to handle a lot of school operational stuff, and trained with the very advanced students on mutant abilities. Clint supposed not having a power meant he wouldn't ever have Ms. Monroe as a teacher. Through the windows behind her, he could see a large black vehicle parked in front of the house. "Clint, you have visitors. They're waiting in the rose garden for you. If you need to move indoors, please use the greenhouse," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," Clint said dutifully, and he walked as quickly as he could to the rose garden. 

Agent Coulson was there, dressed in his dark work suit, and another man was with him. He was tall and blond, with broad shoulders and sympathetic eyes, but a square jaw that made Clint think he could be all-business when he needed to be. Clint didn't recognize him at all. Of course, he knew he might not, because of what had happened to him, but Clint had hoped that he would have known his _teammates_. If this man was one. 

"Sir?" Clint announced himself as he approached. 

"Clint," Agent Coulson said with a smile. "It's good to see you. How are you?"

"Fine, sir," Clint replied, casting a look at the tall visitor. The closer Clint got, the more imposing the man looked. 

Agent Coulson motioned to his guest. "Clint, this is Steve Rogers. He's your team leader."

"Mr. Rogers, I'm really glad to meet you," Clint said. Steve Rogers winced at his words and Clint felt suddenly unsure, so he added, "I'm sorry I don't remember you. I had an accident…I mean, an injury. So I don't. But I want to be on the team." Steve Rogers still looked like he had swallowed sour milk, so Clint kept going, feeling suddenly desperate. "I've been practicing. I'm just as accurate as I ever was. I've also increased my range. And I've been learning hand to hand combat as well." Clint stopped, unsure what else to add, and feeling like saying more could be too much, and waited for the response. 

Agent Coulson spoke first. "That's excellent, Clint. Professor Xavier has given me your progress reports. I'm sure that by the time you turn eighteen that there will be no problem in hiring you, if that's what you want."

Clint nodded. Agent Coulson had been very clear that his preference was that Clint wait until he was the standard twenty-three. Agent Coulson wanted to send Clint to college, which was so bizarre that Clint couldn't imagine it. He didn't have the money for that, and he didn't really believe that SHIELD would pay for it, so he was trying not to hope for such a fantastic thing. But Agent Coulson had assured him it was possible, and also that there would be part-time positions available for him at SHIELD as soon as he had his birthday. 

"Mr. Rogers?" Clint asked. The only thing Clint really wanted was back on the team. It was such a deep desire that Clint supposed it was the old him, _wanting_ something so fiercely that Clint still felt it. If he wanted it that much, then it had to be where he should be, was meant to be. 

"Clint," Mr. Rogers finally spoke, "you'll have to forgive my rudeness. Phil told me what happened, but you look so different, it took me a moment." 

He smiled at Clint and suddenly Clint felt as light as a cloud. The man was stunning, and Clint felt a blush creep onto his face. What a stupid thing, to crush all over his team leader. Clint wanted to be a professional, not a kid with an infatuation. He pushed the emotion down. "That's okay. But I really have been practicing. I'm as good as ever."

"I have no doubt," Rogers said. He glanced at Agent Coulson, and lifted his shoulders ever so slightly, as if to say 'now what' and Clint knew that all was lost. He was still a child in their eyes. 

Agent Coulson said, "Clint, do you recognize Steve?"

"No, sir," Clint admitted, somewhat confused. He'd already told them he didn't. 

"Not from your memories, but from any other way?"

"I...I don't know what you mean." Clint stared at Rogers. He wasn't familiar. "No. Should I?"

"No," said Rogers, "that's fine. Agent Coulson informed me that he hasn't given you all the details, mainly because the team was out of touch. But we're back now, and we do want you on the team, as soon as it's safe to have you there."

Clint wanted to argue—he was ready. His aim was perfect. But he waited for Rogers to finish. He wasn't surprised that they were going to wait for his birthday. For whatever reason, eighteen seemed to be the magical number. If Clint had known, he'd have _lied_ about it from the first. 

"You have to understand that the team goes up against the toughest, the worst, the most dangerous and deadly opponents. You have to be ready. We're willing to wait for you. There will _always_ be a spot for you."

Clint's chest felt tight. Rogers meant it. He could tell he honestly meant it. This wasn't a bullshit story. But there was still going to be waiting involved. "I won't let you down, sir," Clint said. "I'm training as hard as I can, at everything." Rogers winced again, and Clint just didn't understand that. 

"I believe it." Rogers glanced to Agent Coulson. "We could at least bring him in on weekends. When he isn't in school. For training sessions. Get him up to speed. No missions until he's ready." He hesitated, but then continued. "The others will want to see him."

Agent Coulson nodded. "That's your call, Steve."

Rogers held out his hand, though, so Clint put his own into it. Rogers was warm, firm, and solid without being overly damp or powerful. They shook. "Welcome back to the Avengers, Hawkeye," he said. 

Clint nearly fell over in surprise.


	8. Chapter 8

"Do you think it's weird that Captain America visits with you every Sunday?" Ursula asked Clint one Saturday morning. 

Clint was packing his bag. It was the first weekend that he was going to train with his team. With the Avengers. 

Three weeks ago, Clint hadn't known anything. He thought he'd known. Agent Coulson had carefully explained that he'd been hit and injured, and that he was supposed to be a completely grown man, on a team, working for SHIELD as an agent. But the details were important. He'd been Hawkeye. An Avenger.

Which seemed impossible, but made a hell of a lot of sense when Clint had actually spent some time looking up the Avengers on the internet. He should have figured it out before. His skill with the bow wasn't something all that common. But it had just seemed so completely unimaginable. 

Now that Clint knew that he could see why Director Fury wanted him. He was _going_ to be one of their best agents. Ever. But he could also see why Agent Coulson didn't want him. Why Coulson kept him in school and spoke so urgently of college. Clint wasn't anywhere near what the adult Hawkeye had been. 

He'd watched the scant footage on the internet. Caught a glimpse, from a blurry distance, of himself as an adult. 

He didn't yet deserve to be on the team. He wasn't good enough.

But that was okay because _Captain America_ still wanted him, and they were going to train him, and eventually Clint would get bigger, stronger, better. 

"Yes," Clint said. "I think it is weird." 

There had been a lot that the Avengers had to take care of upon their return, so even though they'd planned to bring Clint to the tower to train, there had been three weekends where nothing had happened. Except that Steve Rogers made time to come out and see Clint, and talk to him about the team, and what his role would be. 

Ursula dropped onto the bed, and it bounced her up again. She looked grim and serious. "He just talks about the team? And training? Nothing else?"

"Yes. I told you all that." Clint already had his hard-case packed. This bag was for overnight. Because Steve…and that was also weird, because Clint was finally working on calling them by their names. He was their equal. Not really a kid. Except he was.

Clint took a deep breath. The whole thing hurt. It felt like a band tightened around his chest. Anyway. Because Steve had said they were going to train all day, and they'd return Clint to school on Sunday afternoon. Clint hadn't even been to Stark Tower yet. But he was going to get to spend the night. 

"And Black Widow?"

"Ms. Romanoff," Clint supplied. She'd come with Steve the very next day, that first week. She was the only other Avenger that had come to see him. Gorgeous and nearly expressionless, she'd looked like a lawyer, with a perfectly pressed suit and dark sunglasses on, and she'd taken Clint's hands in her own and looked him up and down. "We'll talk when you come to train," she'd said, and then turned on her heel and walked away. 

Clint thought he should have been upset, but she had actually treated him like an adult. He thought that when they got to talk, that she would finally start to tell him the truth. 

"Yeah," Ursula said, as if it were obvious. "Do you think you and she were dating? Before?"

Clint paused. He really hadn't thought about that. Generally he was attracted to guys, but maybe grownup Clint had made different choices. Maybe that was what Ms. Romanoff wanted to talk about. He swallowed hard. "I hope not."

Ursula put a hand on his forearm. "Don't let them hurt you," she said. "You don't have to go back to them. You could stay at school. Grow up here."

"I can't," Clint said. "They're paying for everything. I owe them." Not to mention that he desperately wanted to be there. His gut instincts were all yearning to get back to his team.

"Professor Xavier takes in students all the time that don't have money, or anywhere else to go."

Clint shook his head. "He takes in mutants. Because they're in danger. I'm a regular person."

Ursula looked surprised for a moment. "I forget that sometimes you aren't. But he wouldn't kick you out."

"Besides," Clint said, ignoring what Professor Xavier would or wouldn't do, "I want to be on the team. Whatever it takes."

"Just come back in one piece," she said. "Or Kia will have a melt down."

Clint laughed. 

~~~ 

Steve had mixed emotions as Clint stepped out of the car that had been sent to pick him up from school. It was still early on Saturday morning, and a rainy, gloomy day. 

"Welcome, Clint," Steve said as he met him at the entrance to the tower. "Glad to have you here. Are you ready to meet the rest of the team?"

"Yes, sir." Clint spoke the words too quickly, all slurred together, and Steve could hear his anxiety. 

"It's going to be a slow day, don't worry. We'll take things one step at a time. First, meet the team. Then, we'll show off a little. You don't know what we can do, really. Then, you can show us where you are with your training." Steve led Clint into the tower, and he didn't miss the way Clint looked at everything. Clint's eyes were quick and decisive, and although he was physically smaller, Steve could see how he would fill out in short order. 

He was so much the Clint Barton that Steve loved and missed that the hollow place in his heart started to ache. Steve absently rubbed his chest just above the spot, but it wasn't a real location, and he couldn't soothe the hurt. Like the soldier of his nature, Steve set the emotion aside for the time being. He could drink in the privacy of his room, though getting drunk was no longer possible, and he could brood, and draw. 

It was enough of a shock to inform Clint that he was an Avenger. Steve hadn't wanted to compound it by revealing their relationship, and even though it had the taint of betrayal to it, Steve couldn't fault himself for the decision. Clint was seventeen, and therefore Steve couldn't have a relationship with him at that point, so the decision was a sound one. Besides, Clint didn't remember anything about it, so he wasn't hurting. Steve could carry this burden alone. 

Steve brought him to the locker room first. He pointed to a locker. "That one is yours. I put a new set of Avenger sweats in there. The rest of the team is in the training area. I figured we could meet, train, and then after dinner, we'd give you the grand tour of the tower."

"Was this my locker before, too?" Clint asked as he pulled out his new set of grey sweatpants and grey sweatshirt. There was also a t-shirt in the locker. The clothes were low-key, without embellishment, but Clint seemed excited to change into the outfit. 

"Yes," Steve answered. He had already gone through it, and it had contained nothing other than work out clothes and sneakers. "I didn't remove anything from it," he said truthfully. He would have, if it had contained anything at all to indicate their relationship, and Steve was glad he could be straight about it. 

Clint's apartment area in the tower was another matter altogether, but they had made different arrangements about that. No one wanted to let a teenager have free range in the tower, for various reasons, so it had been decided that Clint wouldn't be given access to that space until he was restored, or became a full-time member again. Jarvis would assist in keeping him out, and none of the others would facilitate Clint's access. 

Or rather, Steve was less worried that Clint would see his own apartment than he was Clint would see Steve's. Where they'd congregated more and more, and more of Clint's things had migrated there over time. Clint's area was nearly barren. Just looking at it, it was easy to see that no one actually _lived_ there.

Steve had already changed into similar workout clothes, so when Clint was attired, with bow in hand and quiver on his back, he said, "Ready?"

Clint has a tight grip on his bow, but he nodded. "Yes, sir."

Steve stopped. This had nearly been his undoing when he'd first met younger Clint. That he would call him _Mister_ Rogers, and _sir_. It had twisted his guts, because he could hear the echo of older Clint in his ear, whispering words of adoration, and bed-sheet nicknames. To suddenly have all that yanked away from him…well, Steve was beginning to suspect it would be a repeated theme for the rest of his life. "Clint, you can call me Steve. And I think the others will also let you know how to call them."

"Okay. Steve." 

His name sounded odd coming out, but Steve smiled at him. It would just take time. 

~~~

Meeting the team went smoothly. Steve brought Clint through the locker room doors and into the training area, and the rest of the team had paused in their conversations to look at him. But Tony, for all he was often aggravating, was the master of social niceties when he wanted to be, and he stepped forward with a hand stretched out. “Agent Barton! You’re looking rejuvenated,” he’d said, but in the tone of voice meant to include Clint in the joke rather than sting him, and Clint had grinned in reply and had shaken Tony’s hand. 

“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Stark,” he’d said, and Steve watched Tony’s expression drop. He recovered and thumbed at the others. “Hear that?” Tony had asked. “I like this version of him. A thousand times better.” Tony clapped Clint on the shoulder. “Seriously, though, Clint. Bruce and I are working on the issue. So enjoy your vacation while you can, because in no time, we’ll have you on the team full time. Or not. Whatever you want, of course.”

“Hi, I’m Bruce Banner,” Bruce had said, with a fond look to Tony. “Don’t take him too seriously.” Bruce looked Clint up and down. "When you’re ready, maybe you could come to the lab and we could take some measurements. Scans. Data collection. See where we're starting from."

"Sure. I can do that." 

"And this is Thor," Steve had said. He'd had to turn away while Thor had greeted Clint. Something about the juxtaposition of Thor, as tall and strong and fair as he was, next to Clint, looking impossibly young and smaller than Steve remembered, made his heart leap into his throat. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps they were all wrong, and Clint shouldn't even be near the team like this. Agent Barton held his own, and Steve didn't know how he managed, without benefit of anything other than his own wits and skill and training, but now, even that had been taken from him. Steve feared that their sentiment would lead them to putting Clint in peril. 

Steve closed his eyes, just for a moment, and when he opened them he saw Natasha staring at him, with a small crease in her forehead. 

 

~~~

Clint wasn't that tired after the practice session, mostly because it had been so low-key. Really, there had been a lot of talking. If anything, Clint had been bored. Captain America could really beat a tactic to death. When the lectures had stopped, though, they'd played some simple games. 

Clint had liked that. There'd been laughing and teasing, and it hadn't been all that different from the sorts of things that Professor Xavier would sometimes have them do at school, to build camaraderie and friendships. Clint figured that Steve Rogers was at least as smart as Professor Xavier. 

He'd learned that Iron Man didn't always play fair, Bruce practiced as himself and not the Hulk, which had eased Clint's worry a lot. Hulk was a force that no one controlled. Clint thought that Hulk might accidentally squash him. He'd figured out that Thor swiveled between two emotional extremes—either seriously threatening or good-natured playfulness. There wasn't a lot in-between. Black Widow was sneaky, brilliant, and hyper-focused. Clint also learned that Captain America really was as good as it got. He was brave, earnest, and quite clearly good at deciding on tactical decisions. Clint felt better about that. He was fine with accomplishing the tasks that Steve set for him, they were difficult enough, but not beyond Clint's capabilities. 

If Clint felt his chest constrict every time he looked at him, he made himself believe it was nerves over practicing with the team, and nothing else. 

Then Clint had shown off his archery skills. That had been the best. He'd hit everything square on, and even shown off with a few of the trick shots he'd been working on. Everything in the world narrowed down to his aim and his precision, and when he had finished, he came up to the surface again to find the rest of the team stunned. 

"Impressive," Tony Stark had said, "as always. Hawkeye, you've still got it. Or…you've always had it? Whichever way its supposed to be said. Now that you're not you anymore. You know what I mean." 

"Wow," Bruce had said. "Not a doubt in my mind that you should be here, Clint. You belong on the team." It had been the best statement that Clint heard all day, easing fears and worries that sat in his gut like a stone.

Then Stark had given Clint a brief tour of the tower. "The labs are pretty much where I spend all my time. Maybe a little time in my apartment space. And everybody has their own apartment space," Tony said while they were heading up in one of the elevators. "Though we end up in the communal spaces a lot."

Clint had turned that over. "I have space?" he asked, because no one had mentioned that yet, but it seemed to make sense. 

Tony grew flustered, and Clint realized that he'd revealed something that he wasn't supposed to. "Well, not so much at the moment. I thought Cap covered that. You're staying with Natasha tonight. She's got a spare bed."

"But there's stuff, right? My things? In my space?"

"Sure. Of course. Why wouldn’t there be?" Tony rolled his eyes. "But some other day. We need to finish this tour so I can get you back to Natasha."

"Can I see it?" Clint asked. The elevator finally reached its destined floor, and then Tony sighed. 

"Next time," Tony said. 

"Please, Tony. I really want to see it. I need to. I…I just…if I could see who I was. This is really hard…." Clint stared at Tony. 

"Okay, Clint. Okay." He sounded resigned, and Tony pushed the down button and then one of the floor buttons. The elevator doors slid closed again. When they arrived, he walked to the front of a door. "Jarvis, override the lock."

A moment later the lock clicked open. Clint swallowed. "Thank you, Jarvis," he said. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Jarvis, other than that he was fantastic, and Clint wished they had one at the mansion. 

Tony let Clint go first. He flicked on the lights and looked at the space that had once been his home. It was very clean. And mostly empty. Clint walked through the space, noting that there was hardly anything in it. Some clothes, a few books. But the rest of it was standard furniture. 

"You weren't here a lot," Tony said. "You did SHIELD missions as well as Avenger ones."

Disappointed, Clint shrugged. "It's fine. I just thought maybe I had some photos. Or something."

Tony snorted. "You're a master spy and you think you would be dumb enough to have photos? Clint, you weren't a nine to five worker, you _are_ a superhero. I'm frankly surprised you even left this much stuff in here. Next time, I expect to find it completely empty." Tony wheezed for a moment, something like laughter, but more deprecating. "But let's hope not. Next time you might end up in grade school. Like anyone needs to do that nightmare existence again."

They finally shut the door behind them, and Tony finished the tour before taking him to the dining room for supper. 

~~~

"Good night!" Steve called to Clint. "See you in the morning." Dinner had ended well, and Steve was grateful for that. Now he headed back to his quarters.

At the door, he paused and took a breath. It'd been weeks, and tonight felt different. Before he could fool himself into thinking Clint was on a mission. He had been gone for just as long on some. With Clint at Xavier's school, it hadn't felt incongruous. But not tonight. 

Tonight he was in the tower, although Steve had arranged for him to stay with Natasha. Despite Tony's frantic text messaging during dinner about visiting Clint's quarters, Steve hadn't worried. Clint hadn't left much up there, and certainly nothing suggestive. If anything, Steve had been more concerned about the _lack_ of things. 

No, all of Clint's personal belongings were here, in Steve's space. Where Steve did not want to bring the young-version of Clint. Ever. 

Steve opened his door and went inside. He smiled at the photos stuck to the fridge door, of an afternoon visit to the beach, and of the sticky notes he'd saved when Clint had gone on missions in the middle of the night: "Gone skiing in Alaska", "Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm catching bad guys, see you in a few", and his favorite "Had to go. Wait for me". Steve had every intention of waiting as long as it took. 

Steve circled the space, feeling unusually unsettled. 

Clint was with Natasha. He was safe.

Steve showered and finally crawled into bed. It had been months, although to Steve's perspective it had only been a few weeks. The sense of Clint still lingered in the room, of his things folded neatly, of his items in the bathroom. Steve's heart ached with the nearness, so close and yet so far.


	9. Chapter 9

"Do you need anything?" Natasha asked. She stood in the doorway, observing him. 

"I'm fine," Clint said. He had been wondering why the team had decided to bunk him with Natasha. Tony he could guess—there was probably a girl involved somewhere, and that meant a need for privacy. He could also guess that Bruce was just too dangerous. The Hulk could show up at any time. 

But that left Thor and Steve. Maybe Thor didn't share well. Clint swallowed. He'd been hoping to stay with Steve. Maybe…maybe next time. 

Natasha sauntered into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. "We're just friends," she said. "If you were wondering."

Clint nodded. "Sort of."

"Friends of a kind," she continued. "I just want you to know, because we owe each other our lives so many times that we'll never get clear of each other. And I don't think either of us would ever want to." Natasha put her hand over Clint's. "You got me out of a bad place, and you put your neck on the line for me. So when I tell you we are friends, it is a friendship of blood and duty, and debt, and a love that isn't defined like anyone else's."

Clint nodded, his mouth gone dry. Her words had brought a flood of sensation to his mind, and he was mired in it, drowning. "Tasha," he said, the name coming from somewhere deeper inside him than he could grasp. For an instant, he felt the bond, the bottomless depth of it, and his sureness that it was a gift beyond measure. He sucked in air, and suddenly it receded. He felt smaller, lighter, and infinitely younger than he had just moments ago. 

Natasha leaned into him, her face pressed to the side of his head. "You remembered," she said. 

"It's gone now," Clint whispered. 

"That's fine. You knew what I meant." Natasha pulled back to study his face. "So you have to listen to me when I tell you this next part."

Clint licked his lips, felt parched and nervous. 

"I watched you today," she said. "You're amazing. To do what you're doing now, it's incredible. Your instincts are as good as you ever had."

"But?" Clint supplied. 

"You aren't ready for active duty yet. What you had before was years of experience. You knew why an opponent was going to do something before they did, and you could anticipate them. You don't have that knowledge anymore. Until you do, you're at risk."

"But how can I get that knowledge without working on the team?" Frustration ate at Clint. 

"Saturday practice is a good start. I'll bring you with me on some light missions." Natasha leaned back against her braced arms. "But you need to listen to Coulson. It's better if you stay at that school for now." She reached out and traced a finger around the curve of Clint's ear. "Or until Tony and Bruce figure out how to get you back to normal."

"You've only been back a few weeks," Clint said, hope and petulance shading his words. "Everyone knows they're both geniuses. They'll fix me." He didn't add that the thought of being fixed felt like a giant black hole. If he was fixed…would he stop existing? Clint suppressed a shudder. 

"Sure they will." Natasha paused for so long that Clint thought the conversation was finally over, her gaze unwavering as she assessed him, but then she spoke again. "In the meantime, perhaps we should act as if they won't. The first thing to do would be to teach you to move properly. Lightly, like a cat." She held out her hand and Clint put his own into hers. 

~~~

Clint was overloaded on bliss. He was _sneaking_ around just like Natasha had taught, and it felt fantastic. When she'd gone over the basics, it had felt more like remembering things rather than learning them fresh, and within half an hour, he was following along behind her almost as smoothly as she moved. His feet landed just so, and the air around his skin seemed to part, as if he could slip sideways through it all, just by moving slowly and carefully, and ever so mindfully. 

He hadn't known he could do this, but it felt so natural and right. Natasha seemed pleased with his progress. 

"That's enough for tonight," she said as they neared her door. "The others would be displeased to know I've kept you up this late."

Clint shifted on his feet. "Would you mind if I stayed up five more minutes? Just a quick run to the kitchen. I'm hungry."

Natasha smiled knowingly. "A few minutes to move lightly on your own?" She shrugged. "Five minutes. If you aren't back, I will hunt you down."

"I really am hungry!" Clint said as he backpedalled up the corridor. He rounded a corner and changed his movements, controlling his speed and noise, the whisper of his clothing as it moved with his limbs. The kitchen was a minute away and would require a minute to return, which gave him three minutes to find food. Probably he should grab something and bring it back to eat in the apartment. 

Clint pulled up short just before breaking the plane on the last corner. He could hear voices already coming from the kitchen. He put his back against the wall and felt the flare of adrenaline. Should he barge in? He glanced to his watch. He had two minutes to decide, which left a minute to grab food, and minute to hotfoot it back. 

"Are we seriously out of brown mustard?" That was Tony Stark speaking, and he sounded annoyed and amused, and hungry. "I spent hours working my fingers to the bone in the lab, and there isn't even brown mustard."

"You used it up last night on your ham sandwich." That was Bruce Banner, and he was even-keeled and calm, which Clint found a little creepy and off-putting, even if he knew it was because he had to keep his emotions under control. But it seemed to Clint, that even if he sounded controlled, he really wasn't. The Hulk had to always be lurking there somewhere. 

"No. I didn't. That was Cap. Captain America, ham sandwich thief."

"It's a communal kitchen, Tony."

"So? And your point is? Cap knows what he did. He should get a talking to. About this despicable behavior of his. He also ate the last of the macaroni salad."

"Leave him alone. You know he's heartbroken."

"Huh." Tony's voice changed immediately into a different register. It was softer, less abrasive. "Yeah, he is, isn't he? Hell of a thing."

"Which is why we need to finish these sandwiches and get back to the lab. If we finish that experiment tonight, we might have some good news to tell him tomorrow morning."

"Yeah," Tony brightened. "Yeah, and then we can return Cap's true love to him, safe and sound, and bristling with deadly arrowheads just like always, and everything will be okay then. Poor Cap. I can't even imagine. And Cap doesn't want anyone to _tell_ him—"

"Tony, what possible good would it do? He's seventeen. Clint doesn't remember Steve. Not the way Steve would need him to. And if Clint never gets restored, then we're _all_ going to have to learn to let him go."

"I need a drink," Tony said, his tone transitioning from sunny to morose. "I don't want to let him go, Bruce. I like this kid, but I miss Clint. And if I can't have Clint back then I sure as hell am not going to let this kid just wander off to Xavier's forever." 

"We should do what's best for Clint," Bruce said softly. "Tony, he's really good. But we fight against deadly opponents. Do you want to…." Bruce's voice cracked and Clint could hear him swallow and start again. "How would we explain it? To Cap? To ourselves? If he got hurt. Or worse. Killed even. He's _seventeen_. He can't make those decisions yet."

"I'm not hungry anymore. Let's get back to the lab."

Clint pressed up against the wall even more firmly, his heart beating staccato in his chest. He looked at his watch, suddenly realizing that he hadn't been paying attention. He had forty-five seconds to get back to the room or Natasha would come looking. Clint eased away, conserving sound and energy, keeping motion to a minimum. For twenty feet, he kept practicing his newfound sneaking, and as soon as he rounded the first corner, he broke into a sprint. 

Natasha had just stepped out of the door, arms crossed over her chest, when Clint ran up to her. He'd been down to the wire. "Sorry," he said. "I couldn't find anything I actually wanted!" 

Natasha narrowed her eyes but said nothing, and held the door open for Clint to walk through. He thanked her and went straight to the bathroom, where he locked the door behind him, and turned the shower on. Then he spent five minutes under the spray, gasping and shuddering, and replaying the conversation over and over again.

Somehow he felt like he _should_ have known. After all, who had Captain America come visit them every Sunday, if not his lost lover?

Clint braced himself against the tiled wall and tried not to retch. 

~~~ 

In the morning, Clint was able to act as if his entire world hadn't been turned upside down. 

He saw everything through different eyes, though, and noticed the way Steve stared at him, the way he twitched when Clint spoke, and the way Steve avoided touching him. It felt odd to Clint, to know that Steve _loved_ him, when Clint couldn't remember that, and only had the hot flush of attraction so easily categorized and dismissed as a crush. 

There was another brief training session in the morning—another game where the team was split up onto different sides and each had a different objective—and Clint was on Steve's team. Hyperaware of everything, Clint paid attention to Steve as he coordinated their team's efforts. Unfailingly polite, though firm, he quickly assessed the situation, and made a plan. He was everything that a leader should be, but he was equally professional with everyone on the team, and Clint found himself wondering _why_. Why hadn't Captain America fallen in love with Natasha? Or Bruce? Thor? Tony?

The other question Clint found he skittered around, was why had Clint fallen in love with Captain America?

"Hawkeye?" Captain America asked, bringing Clint back to the here and now. "Report on your position, please."

"Yes, sir," Clint said, and chastised himself for letting his thoughts wander during their practice. "Set and ready. I've got a visual of the objective, sir." He hoped that his inattention wouldn't keep the others from approving of his rejoining the team. He had a lot to live up to, and he knew it. 

Later, after training was over, and they were all eating a late morning brunch together, Clint made sure that he sat next to Steve. He realized how easy it had been, since the others just seemed to leave that seat open. 

"Steve?" Clint asked, purposefully using his first name, though it felt awkward, and noticed how Steve blinked at it, and looked fleetingly pained. "I know I don't have all the skills that I used to…before. So, if there's something I could work on during the week, let me know. I can practice whatever you need. Ms. Romanoff showed me some tactics that I'm going to try to get better at. I just thought, that you'd know what I should work on first. To get back to being what I used to." 

Steve took a long sip from his glass of water before he answered. "Let me think about it," he said. "Some of the skills might not be ones you can work on by yourself."

"Thank you, Steve," Clint said, and Steve smiled at him, for a moment so focused and undivided that Clint thought he could very easily understand why he'd fallen in love. It was like standing in the sunshine after living inside a cave. 

~~~

"All set?" Phil asked. It was Sunday afternoon, and he was driving Clint back to school. 

"Yes, sir," Clint replied. He looked a little glassy-eyed and pale, and Phil worried that even the minimized training sessions had worn him out. He didn't have decades worth of training and stamina built into his frame yet, and Phil had _warned_ them to take it easy for the first weekend. He resolved to have a little chat with Natasha and find out exactly how hard they'd worked. Then, if his suspicions were confirmed, Phil would take Steve or Tony to task. Thor and Bruce, too, but Phil suspected that neither of them would have pushed Clint too much. 

"How did it go?" Phil asked, feeling ridiculously like a parent trying to pry information out of a taciturn teenager. "They didn't work you too hard?" 

"No, sir. It was fine." Clint played idly with the zipper on his jacket, and Phil frowned. Grown-up Clint didn't often fiddle with things. Phil had seen him settle down for observation and remain nearly motionless for hours. 

"You can tell me, Clint. Whatever it is, if something is wrong, I just want to help."

"I know. Thank you." Clint leaned against the door, and stared out the window. "I just…I realized this weekend how far I have to go to be who I used to be. The Avengers need Hawkeye. I don't want to let them down. But just being me, I'm not good enough yet."

A knot of tension solidified deep in Phil's gut. "Not yet," Phil said. "But that's why we're doing this. At the rate you've been training, it won't be long before you're mission-ready. Really. And you're wrong. The Avengers need you, Clint. And you won't let them down. You never have before, and I don't see you starting now." For a moment, Phil thought his words struck a cord with Clint. He smiled and brightened, but then it just drained away, and he went back to staring out the window, a wistful, far-away look in his eye, and Phil would have given a lot of pennies to know what his thoughts were. 

~~~

"Hey," Toby said as he finished climbing the ladder to the platform at the top of the old satellite dish. "Ursula said I could probably find you here."

Clint came here whenever he needed to think, or be alone. For the most part, nobody else came up here. The satellite tower seemed abandoned and disused, and he hadn't yet been scolded for climbing it, so Clint did. He liked being up high, and having sight lines all around him. "Yeah. Got a lot on my mind," he said. He looked out at the sky. Saturday morning seemed like a million years ago, though it was just yesterday. With the sky blazing red and orange as the sun set, Clint had been wondering if he'd ever really needed to come down. 

"Was it hard? Being with them for the weekend?" Toby asked. He settled down next to Clint, with his back against some piping, and wrapped his arms around his legs. 

"A little," Clint said. He slapped at a mosquito that had landed on his forearm. Maybe he should rethink never going inside. If he stayed out he'd be a mass of bites by morning. 

"What happened?" Toby asked. 

"I don't even know," Clint said. "I think it went well. They were impressed with my shooting."

"But?"

"They're all adults. I could feel that they wished I was, too. Be who I used to be. That I wasn't enough, and couldn't really live up." Clint slapped at another mosquito, squishing it, one of many whining high-pitches in his ear. "They miss him. The old me. I could see it, feel it. They want him back."

Toby sighed. "I know that feeling." He brushed his hands down his forearms. "My older brother? He's a mutant too. I never told you that before. He's musical. He can play anything. Any instrument, any piece of music. All he has to do is hear it once, and he can reproduce it."

Clint snorted. "There's some non mutants that can do that kind of stuff."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I'm here and he's at music school. They just call him a prodigy. He'd got it under control. Not like me. He doesn't lose control, because his power doesn't work like that. But me—"

"You explode stuff," Clint said. 

"So I'm here. Because if I don't pay attention, I could hurt people." Toby sighed. "So I know what you mean. I'm a disappointment to my parents. Because I should be able to control it. Or it shouldn't be this power. Why couldn't I be the one who can play music? Or at least something useful?"

"I don't know," Clint said. "I guess sometimes things just are the way they are." Clint thought about that. Then he thought about the Avengers. Then Steve. Nothing that Clint did, or didn't do, could change any of it. He wasn’t the old Clint anymore, and possibly never would be again. Steve's love was gone. The Avenger's archer was gone. They had Clint instead, as he was now. If they didn't like it, then there wasn't anything Clint could even do about it. It just _was _. "It sucks," Clint said, "but we don't have any choice. I guess we need to just keeping going." He smacked at another mosquito.__

__Toby did the same, and then a determined look crossed his face. "Hold on a second, don't move. I'm going to try something." He closed his eyes and Clint could feel a pressure building up against his ears and then—_ _

__At least two dozen little explosions all went off in the air around them, like miniature firecrackers blowing off._ _

__"Got them!" Toby cried._ _

__"What the hell was that?" Clint asked, realization dawning a moment later. "Did you just explode the mosquitoes?"_ _

__"Hell yes," Toby said, looking proud. "Stupid little suckers. At least I can explode _them_ and no one minds."_ _

__Clint stared at his friend. "And then there's that," he said, and gave Toby a light punch to his shoulder. "You're out of your head if you think you're a disappointment. That was _amazing_. Way more useful than music."_ _

__Toby looked pleased._ _


	10. Chapter 10

Two more weekends of training with the Avengers, and Clint was growing more used to being part of the team. 

The training sessions had ramped up from light games to more solid combinations of what-if scenarios. Clint had been practicing flying around with both Tony and Thor, and he _loved_ it. 

Steve had almost stopped twitching whenever Clint spoke to him, and Clint found that he was dangerously close to switching over from a serious crush on Captain America to _pining_ for him. It was even worse, knowing that Steve and he had once been together. Clint lay in bed some nights, trying to imagine what they had done together. How it had felt, what it had looked like, and he'd just twisted up his guts into a knot.

Clint liked all the Avengers, but he could more easily see why he'd fallen for Captain America. It was _everything_ that Steve was honest and fair, kind and humble, and stubborn and earnest. Clint wished that he could be just like him. It was like encouraging the better part of one's personality. It started to ache, and hurt more than Clint wanted to admit, that it was a fantasy that wouldn't ever happen again. None of the others so much as breathed word one that they had once been together. Steve certainly didn't come to Clint to mention it. So Clint could only guess that it was over, and deader than dead. He wasn't the same Clint that Steve had fallen for, there was no mistaking that, so he supposed there really wasn't a relationship. 

The whole thing reminded him of his talk with Toby. No point crying over spilt milk. He would carry on. 

Clint took some solace in the fact that he got to stay overnights with Natasha, and that she had no hesitation about talking to him about the past, their missions together—which seemed impossible when she told the tales, and teaching him the necessary skills. 

Clint could climb into the vents in less than two seconds. His agility and stealth were steadily increasing. She'd taught him how to pick physical locks, and had started to teach him to use equipment to break down electronic locks. 

Then, one night, they'd gone on a joyride. 

"Clint?" Natasha stood in the doorway. 

Clint rolled out of bed, ready for whatever learning adventure she'd devised. He never got a full night's sleep when he stayed with Natasha. 

"Follow me," she'd said. They scurried through the halls, down access stairwells, into the underground garage area. When he was with her, his senses seemed sharpened. It wasn't quite remembering, but she did bring out the best in him. Following in her wake, Clint felt alive, and competent. "Threats?" she'd asked him. 

Clint surveyed the area. "Cameras in the corner. Probably heat and motion sensors. Jarvis, of course."

"Very good. Any lasers?"

Clint scowled. He'd forgotten lasers the last time, as well. He looked again. "None."

"Don’t forget the lasers," Natasha scolded. "Come on. Tonight is for hijacking only. I will teach you about the other problems next week. Jarvis?"

"Yes, Ms. Romanoff?"

"We'll be back in a few hours." She brought out a thin metal rod from somewhere—another lesson that Clint knew was waiting in the wings—and used it to open the lock on the fast-looking older-style hot rod. Clint knew he needed to also work on his knowledge of cars. "Like this," Natasha said as she showed him how, her hands working more slowly to demonstrate. "And like this." She opened the door and showed him the necessary wires and panels, and where to place the thin metal rod. After a moment, the car roared to life. 

Natasha grinned at him, and Clint grinned back. "I do so love the wind in my hair," she said, and then they both climbed in, and didn't return for hours. 

 

~~~

Getting to know the other Avengers wasn't hard, but getting to know them well felt a little odd. 

Sometimes after their morning training session, things got a lot less physical and a lot more brainy. In addition to Natasha's secret spy lessons, Tony and Bruce would lay claim to Clint's attentions, and bring him into the laboratory. 

"Agent Barton was a smart cookie," Tony said. "But he was a diamond in the rough. Untrained. Not knowledgeable about the scientific method, or how to set up a proper experiment, or even what a null hypothesis was. He usually went in for eureka moments."

Bruce snorted. "He kept quiet even when he had epiphanies. He played his cards close to the chest."

Tony chuckled. "He did. And then he'd go and say something, like he was double checking it with us, and we'd both stare at him, wondering how the hell he'd come to _that_ conclusion. Because he _got_ things. Intuitively, of course. Which is great, but unreliable. So, we're going to train you, so _you_ can do some science right along with us!"

"Eureka moments?" Clint asked. 

"That moment when everything clicks," Bruce explained patiently. "When the problem that you've been staring at for weeks and months suddenly looks clear as day, and you wrap your brain around it."

Tony grinned. "Archimedes supposedly said it when he was in a bathtub, after realizing how he could determine the volume of irregular objects, and then went running out of the bath, naked as the day he was born, all through the streets."

"Seriously?" Clin asked. "Don't put me on."

"That's the story, anyway," Bruce said. "It could be made up, but we don't know for sure."

"Anyway," Tony interrupted, "forget about that. This is our chance to get you at the beginning. Train you right. Teach you all the mysteries of science."

"Exactly," Bruce rubbed his hands together. "We should get some lab coats. Then, I thought we'd start with some easy refluxing, and maybe titration. Maybe supersaturate some solutions. That's always fun. There's a really easy way to synthesize acetylsalicylic acid."

"Yeah," Tony agreed, his eyes lighting up, "and once we do that, we can make just about any other drug."

"It'll be good to know how to do it in the field," Bruce said, then seemed to realize what he'd said and amended it, "when you're older, of course." 

"I thought I was a marksman," Clint said. "I did science stuff?"

"No," Bruce said. "Not really."

"Not _yet_ ," Tony amended, looking far too focused, and way too excited. He literally rubbed his hands together for a moment, looking over Clint like he was a delicious morsel of food. "But we won't waste this opportunity, will we?"

Tony and Bruce crowded close to him, looking down, and Clint realized that they'd seized their chance to get their hooks into him. Clint licked his lips and wondered if he should run. It seemed he was destined to also be a _scientist _.__

__~~~_ _

__And then there was Thor._ _

__Thor took him flying._ _

__It wasn’t training, not the way that the rest of the team would have viewed it, but Clint loved it. He loved being high up, with the world seemingly miniaturized below him. He loved being tucked under the crook of Thor’s arm, clinging to his waist. It felt solid and safe, and Clint had no doubt that Thor would never drop him._ _

__They didn’t often speak while flying, because the air was generally bitingly cold, and the wind would steal their words. Thor didn’t seem to notice the change in temperature, or if the air grew thinner, but Clint did. He dressed warmly, and had borrowed a windbreaker from Toby just for this purpose. If the wind couldn’t get in, Clint didn’t grow as cold._ _

__Even though Thor controlled the weather, he took care to only bring Clint flying on days with good, calm weather. As far as Clint could see, even though Thor could control aspects of weather, he seemed better able to bring storms in rather than dispel them. He wondered if Thor could send the storms away as easily, or if that just wasn’t something he wanted to do._ _

__Thor enjoyed seeing the lay of the land, and he would just head in a single direction, flying straight and fast, taking in all the scenery. Most of the time, he would spy the highest mountain in front of him, and aim for that as his goal. The tips of the mountains remained snow-covered and cold much longer than the valleys, and often shrouded in thick fog, so the view from the top wasn’t always the best. On the days that things were clear, Clint could see for hundreds of miles._ _

__“We shall set down here,” Thor said as they approached the scraggly, rocky top of a mountain. For once, the day was warm, even at the top where the breezes tended to banish warm air down the slopes. Thor touched down as gently as a feather, and released Clint from his side. Clint watched, always in awe, as Thor lowered his arm and his hammer. The thing looked impossibly heavy, and Clint could hear the weight in the sound of it being lowered and set on the ground. He’d witnessed Thor smashing robots during training drills, and knew the immense power hidden in its blunt form. How it could provide the lift for flight, Clint didn’t understand._ _

__“This land is most beautiful,” Thor said, as he strode to the edge and looked over._ _

__“It really is,” Clint agreed. He wandered a few feet to the left and admired the view himself. He thought they had flown somewhere into the Adirondacks, based on their direction and the distance, although it was often hard to tell when Thor flew. He could cover vast distances without much effort, and Clint sometimes daydreamed while they traveled. Clint scrambled over a few rocks to enhance his view. The euphoria from flying was still buzzing through him, and the vast expanse of countryside was stunning. "Did we do this before?" he asked. "Because this is incredible."_ _

__"Nay, we did not. Though if I had known how much enjoyment you derive from it, the invitation would have been quickly forthcoming."_ _

__"Well, if I ever turn back, make sure you take me out again," Clint said. "I can't imagine I wouldn't like this if I were grown up again."_ _

__Thor looked perplexed, but after a moment, his features smoothed out again. "I shall do as you ask," he said, "though your words confuse me. If you enjoy something, do you not always enjoy it?"_ _

__Clint thought about the question before answering. "I would think so, but I don't know. Everyone seems to think that I'm missing some vital parts, now that I'm not older anymore. Sometimes the old me sounds like a complete stranger. I suppose I'm just not sure what he'd like, and what he wouldn't."_ _

__Thor gave him a knowing smile. "Your friends all see your youth as a sudden detriment. They do not see what is in front of them. They see only the changes, while I see that the core of you is the same as it has always been. This has been a great boon to you, Clint Barton. If you cherish the land spread before us today, then you would have done so yesterday, and again tomorrow."_ _

__Clint nodded at Thor and swept his hand in front of him, indicating the view again. "I know I like it today, and for right now that's enough." He took another long look down the mountain and out as far as possible, until the horizon blurred._ _

__“On a day such as this, much seems possible,” Thor remarked. For a long time, he stared out at the scenery, and then he turned his head to fix his gaze on Clint. “Clint Barton, there is much I have wanted to speak with you about. I must admit to a heavy heart, and much trepidation. The subject is a sore one, and I fear unpleasant.”_ _

__With a warning like that, Clint knew the topic was going to be about something bad, and probably about something from before the incident, because so far, the only interactions he’d had with Thor had been good ones. Sometimes, he’d thought Thor stared at him a little too long, but he’d chalked it up to being suddenly younger than he used to be. It also crossed Clint’s mind that perhaps talking with Thor about a touchy subject might have been better done in the tower, rather than on an isolated mountain top far from any help, and where Thor had the overwhelming strength of the situation. A slow, insidious uncertainly faintly tainted Clint's thoughts, and he held it in reserve. He didn't think Thor had taken him out here to hurt him, but he was suddenly less sure of it than he'd been five minutes ago._ _

__“We don’t have to talk about it,” Clint said, although Thor had spiked his curiosity. “I know there are things that I don’t know yet. We can always wait.”_ _

__“I have waited,” Thor said, “until now. I do not think it wise to let the subject slumber longer. I have spoken with Agent Coulson. He explained to me that while you do not possess the memories of your previous form in whole, that you will oft have some recollection. Is this a true statement?”_ _

__Clint nodded. “Yeah, mostly. It’s just little stuff, though. Door codes and a few other things. Nothing big.”_ _

__Thor seemed to consider that, and rubbed the fingers of one hand under his chin. “Still, I think it best to speak with you on the matter. I fear that you may come to remember what has happened, and would be concerned and uneasy about it.”_ _

__“Okay,” Clint said. “If you think you need to.” He really hoped it wasn’t something he’d done to Thor, and it was about to get him stranded a few hundred miles from home, and probably a few hours away from the closest telephone to even call home to come get him._ _

__Thor shifted on his feet, showing his deliberation, and his anxiety. “In the time leading up to the great battle that first formed our band of heroes, where the Avengers became forged and pledged to defend humanity, the villain that we fought was none other than my own brother. He was most misguided, and in desperate pain, and heartsick. It does not forgive his terrible actions, but I would ask you to at least consider that he came to be in such a frantic, desperate state.”_ _

__Clint nodded, not sure what he was really considering. He’d heard about the Battle of Manhattan. It would have been hard to miss it, since the reconstruction was still ongoing, and once he’d realized he was part of the _Avengers_ , he’d gone to the internet and looked up everything about them that he could find. He knew about how Iron Man had saved them all, by risking his own life, and returning to earth at the very last moment. He’d read about Captain America, and how he’d taken charge, and given concise, strategic directions to get as many people as possible to safety. He’d read an entire interview of a waitress who had told her harrowing story, and thought that Captain America was the biggest, truest hero that ever breathed. He'd read about how the Hulk had become their greatest, most powerful ally, instead of the feared, unstoppable monster that had previously gutted Harlem during a spectacular, earlier rampage. Thor had been mentioned, though not by name. His physique was inescapable to notice, but the reporters had not known his identity. Of himself and Natasha, he had only found uncertain references to other courageous individuals that had accompanied Iron Man, Hulk, and Captain America, but nothing substantive. He had been disappointed, but believed that SHIELD was too much of a spy organization to want its operatives to be front page news. _ _

__Thor looked pained as he continued. “My brother treated you most grievously, Clint Barton. Under his cruel intentions, much happened that was truly regrettable. I pray that you need not remember any of that dark time, for your recent change of form has done you the service of removing its heavy weight from your shoulders. But I do know that if my brother will not repent his actions, then I shall stand in his stead, where I am able. I only wished to tell you this—if you have need of me, you have only to ask. I will be glad to do any honorable thing I might to assist you. You are owed a great debt, and I would repay it if I could."_ _

__It took a moment to unravel everything Thor had said, but Clint was able to figure out the gist. "Thanks, Thor. I appreciate it." Clint hoped he never had to call on Thor to make good on that promise._ _

__~~~_ _

__"You're getting really good at that," Clint said as he watched Kia bring yet another red jelly bean into the air in front of her. It fell down into the palm of her hand and she popped it into her mouth._ _

__"It's easier when I _really_ want something," Kia said, "and tonight I really, really want candy." She had a mischievous expression. "In fact, what I want right now, is one of those cupcakes with the sprinkles that are in the kitchen."_ _

__"Those are for tomorrow," Ursula said from where she was sprawled on the bed, reading. "Professor Xavier is going to know if you snatch one."_ _

__Kia pouted and another jelly bean materialized in front of her, but this time it was black. She threw it into the garbage bin. "I want a cupcake," she said petulantly._ _

__"We'll all get cupcakes tomorrow," Clint said. Then he reached out and rubbed his hand on the top of Kia's head and she'd smiled._ _

__Then, Clint sighed and rolled his shoulders to try to get the tension out. He'd been studying hard, and finishing up all his homework. Now that he spent Saturdays and half of Sunday training with the Avengers, he had a lot less free time. He had to keep up with his homework._ _

__He paused over the last equation to solve on his math work. Agent Coulson had actually brought him pamphlets the last time he'd come to visit—during the week. Although he was sometimes at the tower on the weekends, and usually did the driving to pick-up and drop-off, he still made it a point to come and visit during the week. The pamphlets had been glossy enticements for college. Agent Coulson still thought Clint should get an education._ _

__"Sir," Clint had asked, "I thought Tony and Bruce had almost figured out how to turn me back. I'll be full time on the team again soon."_ _

__"They will. It's just until they do, it wouldn't hurt to act like maybe it would take a while before they find a solution."_ _

__"You don't think they will, do you?" Clint had asked. "Find a way?"_ _

__"Anything is possible with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner," Agent Coulson had replied mildly. "They are geniuses. But sometimes genius can be elusive, it can come and go."_ _

__"What happens if…if I never…."_ _

__Agent Coulson had taken Clint's hands in his own. "Anything you want, Clint. College, SHIELD, being an agent, being on the Avengers. It'll always be yours."_ _

__"But that will mean that…that the adult me would have stopped. Stopped existing."_ _

__Agent Coulson had looked at him with the saddest expression imaginable. "Not really. He'll be back. We just have to wait for you to grow up a little. It'll just take a little time, that's all. And you've got plenty of it now."_ _

__"Oh," Clint had said, and then had stopped, unsure what else to say. He wanted so desperately to ask Agent Coulson about Steve. About Steve and himself. What it meant. But he hadn't breathed a word of it to anyone._ _

__"Are you going to do that problem or not?" Ursula asked from just behind his right shoulder, and Clint startled, jumping nearly a foot, and breaking the tip of his pencil. "Sorry!" she said. "I thought you heard me!"_ _

__"No," Clint said, and put his face in his hands. "No." He looked up. "Where's Kia?"_ _

__"She left about five minutes ago. When you went into zombie mode." Ursula put her hands on her hips. "What's with you, anyway? Ever since you started going away on weekends, it's like the Avengers ate your brain."_ _

__Clint shook his head. "It's just…I wish I knew what was going to happen. I spend all this time training…with them, for them…but I'm not the person they really want. And, I…. Can I tell you a secret?" he whispered._ _

__"Clint," Ursula said, "What is it? Is this about the Avengers?" Color drained from her face. "Are they doing something to you?" She shook her head. "I can't promise not to tell if they're hurting you."_ _

__"No, nothing like that. They're great, I swear. Fantastic. Iron Man is just like you see in his press conferences. He never stops talking. And I haven't seen the Hulk once. This is something else." Clint stood up and moved to sit on the bed._ _

__"Okay. What?" Ursula sat down next to him._ _

__"I'm scared, Urs. What if I can't ever be who I was? What if they won't want me if I stay like I am now?" Clint closed his eyes and let his head hang down. The longer it went, the less he thought he'd be turned back, and really, the less he _wanted_ to be turned back. He figured it might be like dying. Who he was _now_ would cease to exist. Which was pretty much being dead. So, in a way, the Avengers were trying to kill him. And Clint didn't think he could calmly let them turn some beam on him and return him to who he had been. Not even if it meant that he had to give up being an Avenger, because Clint could tell he wasn't yet good enough. Every time Clint thought about this stuff, his head went round and round in circles. "And I don't want to die, Urs," he whispered. "If they turn me back, I won't _exist_ anymore. But they want the older me back. The real Hawkeye."_ _

__Ursula touched her hand on top of his, and he gripped it tightly. "I don't know, Clint. Those are really big questions." She was quiet for a moment. "You could ask Professor Xavier, you know." She leaned against him, putting her head on his shoulder. "Would it be so awful if you stayed here with us? And never had to grow up, and didn't have to risk your life being an Avenger?"_ _

__Clint just sighed and leaned back. "I don't know anymore," he said._ _


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay for today's posting! Life got a bit away from me. I'll post an extra, smaller chapter to make up for it!
> 
> Howard Hill was the real life greatest marksman who worked on the Errol Flynn version of Robin Hood. He made a few movie shorts where he showed off his marksmanship and he really was incredible. I saw one where he was shooting fruit off people's heads, and the fruit kept getting smaller, and he kept shooting if off the person's head.

Phil knocked on the glass door and made a may-I-come-in face and the door mechanism released. He pushed in and walked over to where Tony and Bruce were working on the inside of some box with complicated mechanics. 

“Xenon bulb burned out,” Tony muttered as Phil drew near. “We need to replace it, but you can’t get even a smudge on it or it’ll burn out again.”

Bruce glanced up to Phil, gave a small nod, and then went back to fiddling with the innards. “Not an easy spot to get to,” he said. “Some other stuff has to be removed first.”

"And it isn't fitting," Tony added and he peered over Bruce's shoulder. 

Bruce grumbled under his breath. "The old one came out, the new one should just fit right back in. We need someone with smaller hands."

Tony rolled his eyes and looked at Phil. “What can we help you with, Agent?” he asked. He turned to lean against the table and crossed his arms. 

“I just wanted an update. A verbal update,” Phil clarified. “On the progress made for Clint’s restoration.”

Tony made a face. “Not good,” he said. “You know that it’s light transduction somehow being modified by the Tablet?” At Phil’s nod, he continued, “So you know how light can be a wave, and we measure it between the peaks? If it were only a question of a single light frequency then we’d just run through all those and it’d be done. But it isn’t, it could be a combination of frequencies. So maybe 450 nanometers and 570 nanometers together. But we don’t know it is only _two_ frequencies. It could be three or four or more. Or even that it is light frequency in the visible range, or near it. And the differences in frequencies can be infinitesimal and still make a difference. Not 450, but 450.01, so you can see that the variances on combinations go astronomical really quickly.”

“Nearly infinite,” Bruce added in a very soft voice. 

Phil’s throat was tightening and the lab area suddenly seemed to be full of cold air. 

Tony’s eyes were dark, troubled, and he was staring into the space next to Phil’s head, not right directly at Phil. “And we realized that we couldn’t run projected computer simulations. We thought we had a working theory on amplification for light value combinations, but when we went to validate it, what the calculated outcomes were, and then what the real ones were…they weren’t the same.”

“Meaning that you need the tablet to test each possible combination,” Phil said, letting that sink in fully. It would take a horrendously long time to work through even a small number of calculations. 

“Exactly.” Silence stretched out for a long moment before Tony broke the miasma of frustration and disappointment. “We’re still able to narrow it down a little. The more we work with the Tablet, the closer we’re getting to a theory of how it works, so we might be able to reach a point where we could do combination projects.”

“But not yet.”

“It’s still early days, Coulson,” Tony said, but the glimmer of hope it offered was dull.

Bruce made a small, satisfied noise and finally pushed away from the box he’d been installing the new light bulb into. “We aren’t giving up, Phil. But you may want to talk to Clint. It could be a long time before we’re able to turn him back into his old self. You may want to…” he shared a glance with Tony, “…make plans like it won’t happen.”

“I understand,” Phil said, and realized with a heavy sadness that it really might be true. He’d operated on that assumption from the beginning. That was why he’d initiated Clint’s enrollment at Xavier’s, and cautioning Fury against trying to re-recruit Clint immediately. Not all hope was lost, of course, but Phil needed to seriously move forward as if Clint would not be coming back. He had to accept it—and it hurt him deep in his chest where he’d tucked away all the most precious affections that he held. _His_ Clint was as good as dead. Phil took a moment to let that sink in, and then shoved it away. He would deal with his understanding of that later, when he was alone, and had time, and could cope. For now, he would need to consider future options, and organize a plan. Clint’s situation was a boon in many ways—he now had opportunities and financial backing is ways inconceivable when he’d first grown-up. If Phil could do nothing else for his lost friend, it would be to play guardian. Clint was his family, and his responsibility. 

First up on the list, however, was to talk to Steve Rogers. 

 

~~~

“Has anyone seen Kia?” Clint asked the kids out on the lawn playing tag. 

One of them turned to him, and Clint could see his eyes were a weird silver-white color. Clint was pretty sure his name was Naravi, and the eye mutation let him see in the dark, and sometimes through things, which was a little creepy, but Clint figured it was also tremendously useful. “I think she’s downstairs. Training,” he said. 

“Ah, okay. Thanks,” Clint said and turned to go back inside the mansion. He hefted the bag of jellybeans in his hand and considered his options. He’d bought them that morning while he’d been in the city with the Avengers. He didn’t get pocket money—for whatever reason, Agent Coulson, and the rest of the team hadn’t thought about giving him any, at least none since that first week, and Clint figured that they were already giving him so much, Clint couldn’t possibly ask for more. It would just end up being more money he'd owe back at some point, anyway. 

But sometimes he wished he’d had some, so he’d taken to earning it by doing chores for the other kids at the school. He washed dishes or dusted the library, and they paid him. Some of the students actually had money because they had loving parents who had sent them to school to deal with their powers, not because they weren’t wanted back home. 

Clint had a little stash of earnings, and he’d seen the bag of jelly beans, and bought them The entire bag was red jelly beans, Kia’s favorite, and he’d wanted to find her right away and give them to her, but she was downstairs. Clint supposed he could go downstairs. He knew what was down there. Training rooms, mostly, that he sometimes used. And the Danger Room, that he didn’t. That was for the advanced students, hand-picked by Professor Xavier. A super secret team. Although Clint had heard rumors even during the first week he’d been at school, and he’d seen people get up and leave in the middle of the night and not come back for days. Clint figured that SHIELD already knew about it, and Professor Xavier had every good intention under the sun, so Clint didn’t worry about it, and he didn’t mention it. 

But he also tried not to go near the room. What he didn’t know, he couldn’t reveal. Which seemed like a good plan. He _liked_ Xavier’s school, and even if he was here courtesy of SHIELD, he didn’t want to have to betray confidences about a school that had really become his home, and where his friends were. 

So, Clint hung around outside the elevator that came up from the basement levels. He had to finish reading The Once and Future King for Literature class, so he lounged in a chair, and just waited. Enough people came and went that Clint stopped paying strict attention to the elevator. Kia never walked by him without saying hello or pressing her small hand into his, so he wasn’t worried that she’d slip past. Part of a conversation caught his attention as he read, and he realized the elevator had opened. 

“—went I was in the circus, it took many attempts before I could teleport and perform aerials. Do not give up, Kia. I believe you will someday be able to send things away as easily as you bring them to you.”

“Circus?” Clint asked before thinking about intruding on the conversation, and he dropped the book to see that Kia had emerged from the elevator with…someone else. Clint hadn’t seen this mutant before—and there was no doubt that he was a mutant. He was blue all over and lightly furry, and he had a _tail_.

A flash of emotion crossed the mutant’s features, and Clint could read the dismay there at being seen, and by the one student that everyone either knew or guessed was _not_ a mutant himself. Clint stood up, trying to be respectful and polite. 

Clint was too used to seeing all manner of physical differences in the other students that the moment of surprise passed quickly, and he grinned. “I grew up in a circus!” he said slightly prideful, but also wary. As much as he was glad for the exciting life that allowed him to realize he had a talent with the bow, he couldn’t stop wishing he’d had a normal life, and grown up with loving parents.

The blue mutant looked hesitantly interested. He spoke with an accented voice, solemnly and curiously, “Ah, yes. Professor Xavier mentioned to me that there was a student with a background similar to my own. He thought we could—" here the man broke out into a sharp-toothed grin “—talk about the old days, and practice tricks together. Were you trained to perform?”

“A little. I wasn’t good enough at the aerials to perform them, but I could stand in for practice sometimes, or pinch hit if someone got sick. Mostly I had a target shooting act. Clint Barton. Better known as Hawkeye, the World's Greatest Marksman.” 

“Indeed. I believe your fame has reached my ears,” the man said. He extended a hand, and Clint noticed that it also had a different form than a regular hand. “I’m am Kurt Wagner. When I was with the Munich Circus, I was known as the incredible Nightcrawler.”

Clint shook the extended hand. “I’ve _heard_ of you,” he said, impressed and excited. “Oh, man. The things I heard you were able to _do_.”

Kurt Wagner looked pleased. “We should practice together. Perhaps I can improve your aerials.”

“I would _love_ that!”

“Tomorrow morning, then, before class. Six o’clock.” Kurt raised an eyebrow, but Clint didn’t care about the missing sleep. 

“I’m there.”

“I will see you then.” Kurt rubbed his hand on top of Kia’s head affectionately. “We’ll work together again soon, eh?”

“Yes, please,” she said, and Clint could have sworn that Kurt’s eyes sparkled with mischief when he suddenly vanished into a cloud of sulfur-smelling smoke. 

“Now that’s an exit. No wonder you’re training with him!” Clint said. He wondered how many versions of teleportation there could possibly be. Kia couldn’t transport herself anywhere, but at least she didn’t leave a stink behind. 

Kia giggled and gave a little happy dance around in a circle. “He thinks I should be able to send things _away_ , too.”

“I bet you could. Coming and going is just about the same thing, anyway.” Clint turned and scooped up the bag of jelly beans from where he had left it on the chair, next to his book. “Here, I got these for you. Might make practicing easier.”

Kia clutched the bag, squealed, and launched herself at Clint, giving him a ferocious hug. “You’re the best,” she said. “Thank you.”

~~~

Phil knocked on Steve's door at seven o'clock in the evening on a Friday. He had scheduled the visit through Jarvis two days ago, and had spent the remainder of that time planning what he was going to say. 

"Hi, Agent Coulson," Steve said as he opened the door to his living area and motioned for Phil to enter. 

Phil had been here before, a dozen times or more, as a guest for dinner, or a movie, or because he needed to speak with Clint. He could still see Clint's influence on the space. Phil wandered in behind Steve and he stopped absently to rub his fingers across the wood grain of a case that he knew held a long bow that once belonged to Howard Hill, a working museum piece Clint had coveted and gone after. From one World's Greatest Marksman to another, he had said. 

Steve saw him stop at the long bow case. "Did he ever shoot with that?" he asked. 

"Not in front of me, but he'd promised to," Phil said. "It's one of his favorite possessions."

Steve moved to also run his fingers against the wood grain, near to Phil's own hand. "I'm just keeping his things. For now. In case Tony and Bruce…."

Phil sighed. "That's why I asked to speak with you."

"I know," Steve said, and he turned away. He took three steps and stopped, staring away. "I sort of figured what you were going to say. Clint isn't coming back. Not the way he was." Steve put his face in one hand, and looked like a man defeated. 

"That's true," Phil said carefully. "I spoke with Tony and Bruce, and it is becoming more unlikely they will be able to restore Clint. Which is not the same as impossible, Steve. It is just a harder process than they expected to determine the correct light waves to use to accomplish the task. But that's not really why I'm here."

Steve dragged in a deep breath, and then turned back to face Phil. "Then why are you here? If it isn't to inform me that Clint is…gone."

"Because Clint isn't gone. Not entirely. And you and I, and Natasha, are the ones who care for him the most. It is up to us to make sure that he's taken care of properly. We're his family. We need to help him. With big decisions and small."

A muscle jumped in Steve's jaw as his expression turned stony. "Like sending him to Xavier's?"

Phil nodded. "It was the best place for him at the time. He's done well there." He spread his hands. "Should I have brought him here and left him to wait for you?"

"No!" Steve said. "I didn't mean it quite like that."

"You're upset that I sent him so far away. I understand. But it's a good school, and a safe place. If he remained here, Director Fury would have signed a waiver memo, gotten him on a roster, and SHIELD would have swept him back into field missions within a year." Phil shook his head. "He's far more valuable than that, and we both know it. They'd have burned him out. Clint didn't start working for SHIELD until he was twenty-four. There's a big difference between seventeen and twenty-four."

"What are you saying?" Steve asked. 

"He trusted you, Steve. I have the paperwork where he gave you the power to make decisions for him if he were incapacitated or worse. Well, this is a situation where he needs you to help him make decisions." Phil gave Steve the smallest of smiles. "I believe that we have joint custody, Mr. Rogers, and we should be planning on taking care of our young charge."

Despite the small joke, Steve frowned. "I don't understand. What decisions?"

"What does any seventeen year old need?" Phil asked. "Review of his schooling. Help in choosing a college, a career. Advice about getting credit, falling in love, buying a car. He just needs adults that he can trust. And to go to when he needs help, or has questions. He needs to know that there are people here for him, just in case. He's going to be generally self-sufficient, that's just who he is. He grew up mostly alone, and if there's anything good to come out of this situation, it's that he is going to have a different experience growing up through some of the worst years he experienced the first time around. He's got _us_ to watch his back."

"Rewind that—falling in love?" Steve's voice held a clipped, dangerous tone to it.

Phil should have known that Steve would hear those words, and not the rest, so he tried to be as gentle as possible. "I realize he's seventeen, Steve. But if you don't talk to him, he's going to look elsewhere, and not even know that he left someone behind. I'm not saying you need to start a relationship again _now_ , in fact, if I was able to choose, I would prefer you didn't. But its time to come clean. Eventually, he will find out, and it will be much less hurtful if you're the one who explained it."

"I've thought about it a lot," Steve said. "Some days I think you're right. Other days not as much. But the last thing I want to do is hurt him. And I…I love him _enough_ that I can let him go. For his sake."

Phil shook his head, and let that wave of sadness crest and pass him by. "I don't think that's warranted yet. There's less of an age difference between you now than there was before. It's just that the gap has flipped," Phil pointed out. "He's still the same person at his core. He might be interested in you. What brought you together isn't entirely gone."

"He's a wonderful kid, Phil," Steve said. "And I see so much in him that sometimes I feel like my heart might stop from the familiarity and the _wanting_. But he's not my Clint. Not entirely. And right now, there can't be anything between us. Not until he's older. If ever." Steve took in Phil's mild expression, and then he sagged into the closest chair. "Fine. You win. I'll do anything to help him, you know that. I love him."

Phil glanced around the space, seeing again the small touches that Clint had left behind, and that were being tended by Steve. "I know."

~~~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the smallish chapter.  
> ~
> 
> Music written by Hoagy Carmichael, lyrics by Mitchell Parish, Stardust is considered one of the classic standards. Originally, it had a mid-tempo beat, and was popular, but then it was redone in a slower, sentimental ballad version, and it's popularity soared. Just about everybody did a version of it. I think the clarinet captures the melody in a particularly lovely way. 
> 
> If you want to break your heart, read the full lyrics, and listen to the melody, because Steve knows _exactly_ what he's listening to. These lyrics are etched forever, and he's well far and away doing his best to pretend Clint isn't gone. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Sometimes I wonder why I spend  
>  ____The lonely nights dreaming of a song_   
>  _The melody haunts my reverie_   
>  _And I am once again with you._

Steve closed the door behind Agent Coulson, and turned to face his empty living space. He sucked in a deep breath. Tomorrow was the usual Saturday training, and he'd promised to make an opportunity to speak with Clint. About them. Their relationship. 

Steve wandered through his home, touching his fingers to a few mementos of his life with Clint. Used movie tickets, a receipt from eating out, an impromptu postcard Clint had sent from the corner drugstore just because he could. Steve flipped it over and in Clint's familiar scrawl it read: _How many people do you think will read this message and know what it means? P.S. I wish I could find more grape dental floss. Mint is boring._ Steve thought that only Clint really knew what the message meant, but Steve could guess. It was about affection and teasing, and love, and friendship, and pushing at the boundaries all rolled into one. 

Steve closed his eyes and remembered the last morning they'd spent together. He could recall the exact feeling he'd had when they'd brushed fingers as Steve had handed over a mug of coffee, and the enticing build of anticipation when Clint had stared at him over the rim of that cup, taking a long sip with steam curling up slowly past his face, into the air above his head. 

Steve had pressed him against the counter and felt his solid, capable warmth, and brought his fingers up to rest in the short hair at the back of his neck, and circle around so that his thumbs were tracing lightly against his jaw-line. He'd smelled of soap and coffee, and a hint of the oil he used to keep his bow supple. Clint had balanced the coffee mug in one hand without spilling a drop despite Steve's sudden encroachment, and his free hand had curled around Steve's back, flat against his spine, and pressing them together even more. Clint's smile had been genuine and knowing, and Steve had wanted to rip the walls apart when Jarvis had interrupted to inform them of a growing threat that required their attention. 

"Don't worry, Steve. There'll be all the time we need when we get back. We gotta go make the world safe for the lovers and the dreamers everywhere."

Steve had dutifully nodded and turned his attention to preparing for combat, all thoughts of other activities squashed. The promise of _later_ had been enough, and he had always known that there might be a day when there was no later—their occupation too dangerous to not acknowledge such—but it had always seemed remote, and their skills and abilities enough to win them the day, that Steve hadn't given it another thought. Now there would never be _later_ again. Clint was lost to him, a memory softly fading.

"Jarvis?"

"Yes, Captain Rogers?"

" _Stardust_ , please. Benny Goodman. Put it on repeat."

"As you wish, sir." Jarvis had a slight air of concern mixed with sympathy, and disapproval, though his voice was still unfailingly polite. 

The familiar strains of an orchestra filled the room, and something tightened in Steve's chest, and didn't loosen until the first high, thin, reedy notes of the clarinet came out over the rest of the music, carrying the melody, where the words would have been. Steve didn't need to hear them. They were written across his heart. 

He balanced the postcard back in its spot on the shelf, and retrieved his sketchbook. He actually hadn't drawn Clint very often, mostly because he knew him through touch and memory more than sight. When Steve looked, it wasn't with his artist's eyes, but with the colored-lenses of adoration, stardust-colored now, in his mind's eye only. 

Steve had never seen the world as black and white alone, but he'd managed to make his choices and navigate as best he could. Kindness was important, and always the correct choice, as well as fairness and dealing definitively with the bullies of the world. Such tenants had always held him in good stead. But now, Steve was at a loss. 

He'd fallen in love with Clint, and Clint had returned those promises. But that was a mature, world-experienced Clint, battle-scarred and oft-weary, with a spark and wit to him that wouldn't ever be cowed. Steve held no less dear to his promises made to Clint even though he was now different, but he could hold no expectations from Clint. Indeed, it seemed egregiously unfair for Steve to burden Clint with this knowledge—what could he expect? To shackle the kid to him with declarations he wouldn't remember making and feelings that he no longer knew? 

No, Steve had wanted to carry this burden on his own. It was heavy, but it was the right thing. 

Clint should be unencumbered. Free to live his life, and find all the joys there were to brighten him. Steve wanted that _for_ him. 

Coulson wanted Steve to reveal the truth to Clint. Which was the only reason Steve would do it. It was the _truth_ and the rest of the team knew it, and even though it was kinder to keep this information secret, Steve knew it would be more terrible in its discovery. It was better, and more fair, to at least make Clint aware, though Steve was already practicing the most gentle of sentences in his head. He could bear this. He would minimize it, and make it clear in no uncertain terms that Clint had his whole life ahead of him, to find his own way.

Steve put aside his sketchbook and walked to the wooden long bow case. He rubbed his fingers along the seams and edges. Perhaps it would ease the transition if Steve were to show this, and turn it over. Clint might like to have it in his school room. Perhaps he could practice with it. 

Steve's chest grew painfully tight at the thought. Clint was past the city limits, and at _school_ , and would never return to their home. Steve would have his memories, of course, and he could mourn alone, for the loss of his love, but it would be always a loss. 

"Clint," he said out loud, and the last notes of Stardust faded. There was a momentary pause, and the song started again. Steve looked to the clock. Just after midnight. He wasn't tired. He supposed it might mean something if he were to sit a vigil for the night, as a way to finally start to say good-bye, and to work on welcoming the new Clint. It would become easier over time. 

"Captain Rogers, sir, there is a disturbance being reported on the news." Jarvis cut through the middle of the song. 

"Turn the news on, please," Steve asked. The television flickered to life, showing darkened scenes of chaos. Immense flying ships of some type were hovering in the sky, and already the streets were backed up with traffic, and horns blaring. The city that never slept already had people crowding the sidewalks. 

"Director Fury is calling, sir."

"Wake the others, please, Jarvis, and connect me to the director," Steve asked. "Hello, Director Fury."

"Captain Rogers." Fury was grim and to the point. "Time to assemble."

"Yes, sir."


	13. Chapter 13

Clint checked his watch and then returned to staring into the distance. No one was driving down the lane. He paced a little and considered calling Agent Coulson, but decided to wait five more minutes. He'd never been this late before. If anything, Agent Coulson was punctual to a fault. 

Ursula appeared at the door, dressed in her early morning jogging outfit. "Clint, there's something on tv. You need to see it." Her eyes were wide and she looked stunned.

The bottom of Clint's stomach felt like it fell out. He dashed into the kitchen and skidded to a stop in front of the tv that perched in the corner of one counter. Toby, Kia, and a few other kids were also there, staring at the screen and the destruction being reported. 

Dark smoke was rising from buildings in the city, and there were scenes of people escaping from cars, buses, and through windows of buildings. A sick familiarity washed over him, as if he'd seen it before, and been surrounded by it, and faint echoes of memories surfaced—he'd helped a kid out of a bus…Iron Man had flown him higher and higher…the anticipation of pain as he swung into a window…. The memories faded, and Clint stared at the tv. The announcer was reading off locations for emergency shelters, and then she was suddenly interrupted by footage of Iron Man. He was flying at a large floating ship, and there was a burst of light, and then Iron Man was falling. The clip cut away, and Clint gripped at the counter, desperately hoping that Tony was okay, had somehow recovered.

Clint fumbled for the cell phone that he kept in his pocket, but never used. The one that Agent Coulson had given him for emergencies. He flipped it open and waited, expecting to hear a voice, or a computer message, or something, but there was nothing. It sounded dead. He closed it and returned it to his pocket, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. If the emergency cell phone wasn't working, then things were really bad. 

"I have to get there," he whispered to Ursula. "They need me." He thought for a moment. His training uniform, the closest thing he had to battle dress, was in his locker at Stark Tower, which was Disaster Central. He also had another quiver there, with a wider variety of arrows. He already had his bow on him. So, he just had to get there. He turned and sprinted to the garage area, ignoring the "Clint, wait—" that rang behind him. Probably it would get him expelled, but he couldn't do _nothing_ while his team fought for their lives, and the entire city. Maybe Professor Xavier would only suspend him for borrowing a car. 

Clint was about to break the window on one of the SUVs with his elbow when there was a tug on his arm. 

"Not without us!" Ursula said. She put her hands on her hips. "Don't even think for one minute you're driving into _that_ without us."

"It's too dangerous," Clint said. There was an odd sensation against his arm and he realized his bow was gone. He looked sideways and saw Kia holding it. "I'll _keep_ taking it if you go without us!" she said, looking defiant and determined. 

"Me, too," said Toby as he stepped into the garage. "You might need us."

Clint was about to protest, but then realized that Toby was probably the best option he had to bring with him. The others were just as stubborn, and wouldn't stay behind. Just like Clint wouldn't stay at school while his team risked their lives. He pointed at Toby. "You're going to come in handy." Toby smirked with pride at that, and Clint knew he liked the possibility of his mutant power being useful for once. "Okay, fine. Everybody, let's go." He prepared to smash the window and again Ursula tugged at his arm. 

"Hold on!" Ursula said, and Kia scrambled over with something in her hand that she held out. "Here," Kia said triumphantly, and the key to the SUV dropped into Clint's palm. 

"Okay, you're going to come in handy too." He grinned. "Probably they don't even need _me_."

"Don't be an ass," Ursula said. "Now hurry up. It's not a short drive."

Clint used the key to unlock the SUV and everyone climbed in. He started the vehicle. "Seatbelts," he said, and heard obliging clicks all around. He shifted the car into gear and started down the long driveway.

"Do you know how to get there?" asked Toby. He was in the backseat with Kia, Ursula having taken the passenger front. 

"Mostly," Clint said. "I paid attention when they drove me in. I just don't have a driver's license." 

"I think the police might have other things on their mind," Ursula pointed out.

"Maybe," Clint said as he turned on the radio, searching for the news, but unable to get anything. All that came from the speakers was incessant static. He figured that the cops were the least of his worries. He'd now stolen a car from the school, brought along other students, including Kia who was too young to be out doing this _at all_. At least Ursula and Toby were his age, and knew how serious this really was. Clint hoped Agent Coulson was right and SHIELD wanted him as an agent, because after this, Professor Xavier was sure to expel him. 

The drive into the city seemed agonizingly long, but eventually they made it, and Clint was surprised to find that he was able to drive all the way to Stark Tower. The streets had abandoned vehicles and debris everywhere, and Clint had to slowly roll around them, sometimes on the sidewalk, but it had been possible. The fight against the ships wasn't far away, but it wasn't centered on the tower. He pulled up to the gate that would let him hide the SUV in the underground parking area. If nothing else, maybe he could return the car in good condition. He'd probably still get expelled, but it was one less thing he'd owe restitution on. 

"Jarvis!" Clint yelled at the speaker. "Let me in! It's Clint Barton."

"Of course, Mr. Barton." The yellow and black striped blocking arm raised and Clint drove in. 

"This is cool," Kia said as they drove down several levels. "Who's Jarvis? Does he work for Mr. Stark?"

"Sort of," Clint said as he parked and jumped out. The others followed. "Jarvis is a computer voice. Tony programmed it to be super smart. This way. I have to get to the locker room. Then we have to get to the roof." He led the way. 

The others were silent as they made their way through the tower, taking it all in. In the locker room, Clint paused and then rummaged through the other lockers, finding protective pieces of clothing, bits of uniform extras. He handed them out. "Put these on. They're heat and cold resistant. They won't keep you from getting hurt, but they should deflect random debris." As he suited up, the others did the same, and Clint had to grin. Natasha's outfits looked ridiculous on Kia and Ursula, too loose in some areas, and too long on the arms. Clint helped Kia roll up the sleeves. Toby had gotten the second of Clint's uniforms—the one he'd torn a few weeks ago during training. Clint put his hand on the tear that ran across the abdomen. "Don't forget this has a hole," he said. 

"Now what?" Ursula asked. 

Clint looked up. "We go to the roof. I can shoot from there. And Toby can blow things up." 

"I can help too," Kia said. 

Clint nodded. "Oh yeah," he said, thinking. Kia couldn't move large items, it exhausted her, or was beyond her ability. But small things held larger things together. "Nuts and bolts," he said. "Focus on moving the smallest things out of the ships. Let them shimmy themselves apart."

Kia grinned. "I can do that."

Clint looked at Ursula. Her power was healing, which wasn't all that useful in a battle. But that also meant that she wouldn't be busy on the offensive. "Watch our backs," he told her. "We're going to need you to be our eyes all around. Just in case something is coming at us and we're busy concentrating on other stuff."

Pale but determined looking, Ursula nodded. "I can do that."

"Okay, let's go." Clint led them to the elevators. "Top floor, Jarvis. Thanks."

For a moment, the elevator didn't move. "Sir, the parameters of the situation are outside those—"

Clint couldn't believe that they'd programmed in _contingencies_ to keep him out of trouble. He was supposed to be an Avenger! Even if he wasn't who he used to be, he was part of the team. Irritation spiked through him, and suddenly words sprang forth. "Override code Hawkeye Echo Lima Papa," he said. 

There came a brief whirring, and then Jarvis said, "Welcome back, Agent Barton. You've been missed." And the elevator started moving. 

The others looked at Clint but he gave them the tiniest of head shakes. It was all he'd remembered, and he didn't want Jarvis to realize that he wasn't really the older him. "Situation report, Jarvis. What am I dealing with?" he bluffed. 

As the elevator traveled, Jarvis spoke. "In brief, Agent Barton, the invasion force has unknown origins, although it appears to be non-alien in origin. Numerous deployment ships are present and although creating damage, the team has focused on disrupting the main ship, which should theoretically allow for disengagement of the individual forces. Captain Rogers has directed all Avengers to concentrate on this objective."

"Thank you, Jarvis," Clint said as the elevator reached the top level. "Can you activate my communication unit to the rest of the team?"

"Not at the present time, Agent Barton. There is a severe communication disruption broadcast from the main ship."

"Get it on-line as soon as you can."

"Of course, sir."

Clint looked at the others. They all looked nervous, but ready. He couldn't blame them. He felt like adrenaline was coursing through him at a hundred times the rate needed, and he was suddenly hyper-aware of _everything_ , but his hands felt steady. He could start shooting down anything within his radius. "Take your time," he said to them. "Don't draw attention to us, if we can avoid it. The longer we stay on the roof, the more we can help. Be clear when you speak. The other Avengers have a plan of attack. We're just going to cover their backs, and take out anything we can. If we get into any danger, we head in and down. Right?"

They nodded, and left the safety of the elevator for the roof. The sky was filled with smoke, and burning things, and the wrench and scream of metal being rent and torn. Explosions were in the distance, muffled, but still loud, and percussive. Clint wished they could have been closer, but he had a good view and there were a lot of targets. The rest of the team was attacking the main ship, and he could see lightning strikes as Thor concentrated his efforts. A sharp streak of blue energy also let Clint know that Iron Man was also attacking the ship. He felt a small rush of relief at confirmation that Tony had survived the fall he'd seen on the television report. 

"Okay, Toby. First one—see that smaller ship? What can you do?"

Toby nodded and turned to stare at it, grunting, and then put one hand up, and suddenly the thing exploded into a million pieces. Behind them, Kia and Ursual let out a cheer. 

Clint observed Toby, and how he trembled and already looked tired. "That was great," he said, "but can you just disable them—a smaller explosion? Just the engine? A tailpipe? You don't have to make the entire thing disintegrate."

Toby bit his lip and brought his eyebrows down in concentration as he turned again to the skyline. It took a moment longer, but the next mini-ship that went down just suddenly emitted smoke, and careened to the ground. Toby looked a lot less wrecked. "That's it," Clint said. "Pick your targets and take them down." 

"Got it," Toby said, and then grinned. "Finally. I get to blow things up, without consequences. You don't even know—I have to hold it in all the time—"

Clint squeezed his arm. "You're _fantastic_ ," he said, and Toby squared his shoulders again, and ships started smoking and falling from the sky. 

Clint turned to Kia. "See how it works?" he asked. "Little things. Like the jelly beans. Bring me all the little things."

Bouncing on her toes, Kia clapped her hands together. "Let me _try_ ," she said, and she scrunched up her face as she concentrated. Suddenly there was a small pinging sound, and some type of gear appeared in the air. Clint looked out, but nothing went down. 

"Try another part," he said. 

Kia nodded, scrunched her face again, and a moment later another bit of metal appeared in the air, and fell to the ground. Clint scanned the sky, but again nothing fell. Clint shook his head. Kia wasn't a mechanic. How could she know what was a critical piece? "Try something even smaller," he said. "Maybe something hot? Something under stress?" Clint vowed to get some training in engineering. He needed to know these things. He suspected that the older version of himself would have. 

Kia resettled herself, a look of fierce determination coming over her features, and suddenly a weirdly-shaped piece of metal appeared, vibrating at an odd pitch, and Kia crowed in delight. "That's _it_ ," she said and pointed. One of the mini-ships actually sputtered and then spiraled down. 

"Great!" Clint said, "Keep that up." Finally he reached for an arrow, and gave Ursula a look. "Keep us safe," he told her. "We're going to be concentrating on other things." She gave him a shaky nod, and started scanning the skies. 

Like Toby and Kia, Clint knew that he needed to be efficient. He only had so many arrows, and he wanted to make them count. If he was going to hit the mini-ships, he would need to hit them in their guts where it'd do the most damage. Clint studied the ships as they whizzed around in the air, strewing damage and destruction all along the way. He noticed that each had an exhaust tube, and something sparked in his brain. It was a hazy memory—knowledge of mechanics without actually remembering how or why—and Clint decided to trust it. He aimed for the exhaust tube. 

Then he waited, to make sure it would work. After about thirty seconds, the mini-ship guttered into silence, a thudding internal explosion took place, and it leaked oily smoke as it plummeted. A few minutes later, and Clint had taken down six more of the mini-ships.

"Clint, behind you!" Ursula said, and Clint turned in time to see a mini-ship about to buzz them, set on a trajectory to take them out. The exhaust pipe was in the other direction, so it took two arrows—one to the operator of the mini-ship, and Clint didn't feel bad about that exactly, but he figured it was something he'd have to deal with later, and one to an area on the mini-ship that his instincts cried out to be a vulnerability. His instincts were right, and the mini-ship dipped sideways, and crashed into the side of the nearest building. 

Clint paused to check on Kia and Toby. A small pile of the wavy metal pieces were at her feet, and she looked like she was completely focused. Toby glanced at Clint and gave him a thumbs up as two mini-ships burst into flames several hundred feet behind him. Clint returned the thumbs up and pulled another arrow. He scanned the distance. The mother ship was still intact, and he couldn't see any more lightning. Thor must have decided to focus on another avenue of attack. That bothered Clint. Thor was powerful in a way that Clint could barely grasp. He took hits that would have incinerated an ordinary person. His powers were incomparable. He controlled _lightning_. 

Clint scanned the mother ship. It was too far away for him to reach it with an arrow, so if he were to do so, he'd have to catch a ride over there. He could do that. But what could Clint do against the mother ship that Iron Man or Thor couldn't? 

Suddenly Clint spotted a small speck hidden in the far corner of the sky, well away from the mother ship. It looked like one of the mini-ships, but something about it seemed off. It was a drone ship…except it wasn't. Whispers of experience that Clint could barely understand unfurled in his mind. That was it. The drone ship. It wasn't the mother ship at all that was controlling the attack, but that ridiculously unassuming drone ship. 

"Jarvis?" Clint backed up to the elevator, to make sure he could hear the response. "Any luck with communications?"

"Regretfully, no, Agent Barton. No link can be established at this time."

"Right. Okay. When the others get here, tell them I went after that drone ship over there, opposite the mother ship. That's the control source. I'm going to try and shut it down. If I fail, make sure they know to go after it."

"Understood. Although perhaps waiting for one of the others would be preferable."

"Can't wait, Jarvis." Clint stepped forward again, just to the edge of the tower. "Ursula? If—when the other Avengers get here, tell them I went after that drone ship. That's the one controlling all the others."

Ursula shaded her eyes with one hand and stared into the sky where he'd indicated. "What? No! That's crazy. How're you even going to get there? Let's flag someone down, and they can go."

"No time," Clint said. Despite their best efforts, Kia, Toby, and he hadn't even made a dent in the number of mini-ships that were laying waste to the streets. The air was harsh and acrid with fumes and smoke, and all he could hear were alarms going off far below in the streets. He pulled a specialized arrow out of his quiver. "I'm going to catch a ride."

He waited until a mini-ship zipped close and then he shot his arrow into the underbelly, placing it carefully to avoid too much damage, but to safely lodge the arrowhead barbs. He braced himself, and was shocked when it yanked him off his feet. His arms burned with exertion as he climbed the short distance, grabbed onto the frame and clawed his way up, kicking the operator off into thin air. He made a small mental thank-you to Natasha for teaching him some useful hand-to-hand combat as he secured himself on the mini-ship. It took a moment to understand the controls, but again, something welled up in his mind, providing insight, and he maneuvered the transport well enough. He only had to get close enough to shoot the exhaust pipe. 

When he loosed his arrow, the thrill of exhilaration shot through him. The arrow caused some sort of frizzing electricity as it streamed forward, and Clint realized there had been a force field around the ship. Apparently his arrow had been just small enough, or large enough, or whatever-enough, to make it through the shield. He counted in his head, waiting with another arrow nocked to see if he needed to try again, and then was rewarded with the deadened thump of an explosion, and oily smoke hazing out of the seams of the drone ship. 

And then realized he hadn't paid quite enough attention to the protective flanking of mini-ships that were converging on him. They hit the vehicle he was riding and it started oozing fluids, going down. 

With a sick dread in his gut, he tried to shoot one of the other mini-ships, to recover a vehicle and his own safety, but just as he reached behind him, the drone ship exploded, and he felt like he'd been hit with a brick wall, his ears buzzing with the concussion. His fingers felt thick and clumsy and wouldn't close on the right arrow. He realized that the explosion had stunned him, and that he was falling.


	14. Chapter 14

Steve bashed one of the attack ships with a fling of his shield, and it went down in a cloud of sparks. Skyward, he could see Thor and Iron Man doing their damndest to take down the mother ship, but it had some kind of force shield that nothing could get through. 

"Team, report in," he said, but received nothing. Their communications had been down the entire time, and it was hampering them at every level. Steve glanced around and made a decision. He was only a couple blocks from Stark Tower. If he could reach Jarvis, perhaps he could do something about the communications, and get them organized again. It was worth a try, and would have better results than his taking out attack ships one by one. 

Steve sprinted for the tower. 

As he neared it, he could see figures on the top. They seemed to be staring off into the distance, but it was discomforting. Why had Jarvis let anyone else into the building? Or had they attained the roof through some other means? Flying?

Steve hit the doors and raced for the elevators. An elevator car was already waiting for him. He'd previously timed himself against the elevators and knew that they had a seventeen second lead on him. He figured it was because they went straight up and down and when he took the stairs, he spent a lot of time zigzagging. As interminable as the wait was, he chose the elevator. It also meant that he would conserve his energy for a fight at the top, if need be.

"Jarvis," he said as he entered, "roof. And I need communications restored!"

"Yes, sir," Jarvis replied. "Attempts at restoration are in progress. There is also another matter of concern. Agent Barton's associates are on the premises. Agent Barton requested that you be informed of a drone ship that he believed was actually in control of the attack, and not the mammoth ship that has been under direct assault by the Avenger team. He has gone to engage against the drone ship, and has requested back-up."

Steve took the information in, trying to process it. "Agent Barton?" he echoed. "Clint is here? And you let him get to the roof?" 

"Agent Barton correctly supplied the appropriate emergency code."

"He did what?" Steve fumed. That meant one of the others had given it to him—against express decisions that Clint be protected from what everyone knew would be his innate folly to try and participate when he wasn't damned _ready_ yet. "Never mind," Steve said, stowing the issue for later. It was already done. He needed to focus on moving forward, not recriminations. He could investigate the issue later. "How long has he been gone? And how long until communications are up?"

"Agent Barton exited the roof one minute and twenty-two seconds ago. Communication restoration is still in progress."

The elevator doors opened to reveal three kids on the roof, dressed in ill-fitting battle suits. The boy was dressed like Clint, and the two girls were dressed in leftover pieces of Natasha's uniform. The one girl had red hair similar to Black Widow's but looked nothing like her otherwise. The other girl was strikingly young, and Steve had to push down his ire. What had Clint been thinking to bring them here?

"Captain!" the red-haired girl cried. "Clint went to shoot that ship down. He needs help!" 

Steve focused his attention across the sky and could just make out an attack ship flying at breakneck speed toward the small drone ship that was hovering high up above the fray. Steve frowned at that. He hadn't seen the ship before, and he'd checked that quadrant. Hell. The mother ship had been a decoy, and the tiny drone had been flitting around, camouflaged among all the other similar attack ships. 

He felt a thrill when black smoke suddenly poured out of the drone ship and Steve realized that Clint had accomplished his goal. Even in his condition—undertrained and inexperienced—Clint was superseding all expected goals. A little burst of pride claimed Steve and he packaged it away to think about later. He still had a battle to contend with. "Jarvis, I need communications!" 

"Being restored now, Captain Rogers," Jarvis intoned in Steve's ear. "The interference is gone."

_The drone ship,_ Steve thought. _It had been jamming their communications the whole time._

"Team?" Steve spoke into the communicator device, "I need immediate back-up for Hawkeye. Location: quadrant theta-one. Thor? Iron Man?"

"I shall make great haste," Thor replied. 

"On my way," Tony said, and Steve felt a rush of relief. With communications open, the tide would turn. Steve gazed into the distance, picking out both Thor and Tony as they flew at tremendous speed toward the billowing drone ship—and then it exploded. Steve's heart stopped as he saw the small figure tumble off the attack vehicle, and into thin air.   
"Iron Man! Thor! Pour on the speed! Hawkeye is in freefall. Repeat, he's falling!" Steve took a step forward, as if he could somehow do something. His mind supplied the trajectory for both Thor and Tony, plotting the distance and their speed. It wouldn’t be enough. Tony was closest— "Tony," Steve said, "please." It seemed to take an eternity for the small figure to plummet. 

Behind him, Steve could hear the children cry out in realization and aguish. 

"Kia!" screamed the red-haired girl. "Kia! You can do this!"

"I'm trying! I'm trying! He's too large!" the little girl was wailing, and Steve couldn't pull his eyes away from Clint. Iron Man was blazing across the sky, and it wasn't going to be enough. Steve felt the ever-familiar ice start to form in his chest, chilling his blood, his bones, and nearly stopping his heart. 

"Kia!" the boy had started shouting, too. "You've got to do this! You _have_ to!"

The little girl was sobbing behind him. 

The visual angle on Clint's fall had changed and Steve couldn't see him anymore, though he knew there was still more distance to fall. Tony was nearly there, so tantalizingly close. His arms stretched out— And then Steve couldn't see either of them anymore. For a moment, it felt like time had stopped, and there was nothing but impenetrable, jagged ice in Steve's chest. 

After an impossible eternity, Steve took a breath, preparing to deal with the children. He had to get them to safety, even if he felt like his chest had been shredded open. He turned—

Suddenly, there were thousands of small red objects in the air, suspended all around them, like polka-dots in three-dimensions. Steve blinked, and all the little red bits succumbed to gravity, falling to the ground, pitter-pattering until it roared like a brief cataract, bouncing and scattering everywhere. 

Absently, Steve realized they smelled _sweet_ and somehow familiar, and his mind catalogued the little red items. They were jelly beans. Thousands and thousands of red jelly beans, all different shapes and shades. 

Steve looked up and then went down on one knee, all his breath knocked out of him. 

Clint was on the ground. In one piece. Though his eyes were closed and he wasn't moving. His bow had fallen off to the side, as if it had been in his hand and then tumbled away.

The little girl was still sobbing uncontrollably, but she was being hugged by the other two children. The red-haired girl was stroking the little girl's own dark hair and whispering, "He's here, you did it. Kia, you did it. He's here. You can look."

The boy turned wide, shocked eyes to Steve, and then looked at Clint, and back to Steve. He opened his mouth to speak, and words formed, but no sound came out. 

In his ear, Tony was squawking. "Cap! Oh, god, Cap. I didn't— I couldn't— He _vanished_ — Cap? Cap!" 

Natasha responded in her blankest voice, "Please report clearly, Iron Man. Were you able to recover Hawkeye?" After a pause, she added, in a tight, clipped, hollow tone, "Can you report his position?" 

Tony started to speak, anguished, "I—"

Steve found his voice for a moment and interrupted him. "Team, on stand-by. Situation is developing." He could almost hear them holding a collective breath. "Hawkeye is here. Please await status."

The jelly beans were everywhere, like a tide of algae, and they squashed under his boots as he moved next to Clint and kneeled down. Steve put two fingers to the pulse point on Clint's neck and waited. It was there, slow and steady, as if there was nothing at all wrong. Except Clint's eyes were closed and he wasn't moving. Steve looked at the three children. The red-haired girl and the boy were staring at him, and the little black-haired girl was focused on Clint, hiccupping in fits as she tried to control her tears. 

"He's alive," Steve told them. "Thank you," he said. He wasn't sure exactly how it had happened, but it sounded like the littlest girl had done… _something_. 

The boy and little girl looked at the red-haired girl and she shifted forward, laying a hand on Clint's forearm. She closed her eyes and sighed. "He's fine," she said, exhaling. "Just…from the fall, I think. From Kia. He'll be fine." The other two children slumped, and the little girl burrowed her face back into the red-girl's shoulder, and sniffled softly. 

Steve glanced around. There were still some attack ships in the vicinity, and they were sitting ducks out here. Steve wasn't sure that moving Clint was the best option, but he didn't appear to have any kind of a neck or back injury, so Steve scooped him up into his arms.

For a moment he went dizzy with relief as he felt Clint shift against him, his eyes still closed. Steve cradled him close and a wave of relief hit him again. He _smelled_ like Clint, so achingly familiar. There was dirt and grime, and the stench of smoke, but beneath it all, was Clint.

"Let's go inside," he said to the children. "Can you follow me?"

The little girl reached out to touch Clint's hand, sniffling as she did, and then looked at Steve. "I'm sorry about the jelly beans," she said. "I didn't mean to bring them too."

"That's alright," he told her, even though he wasn't sure how the jelly beans fit. "I'll explain about that to whomever needs to know. I'll take care of it."

The girl nodded and then leaned against the red-haired girl. "I'm tired," she said, and closed her eyes. 

"Not yet, Kia. Inside, and we can all sleep," the older girl said, and she looked at Steve. 

Steve nodded. "There are beds for everyone inside." He pressed his cheek to the top of Clint's head, and just breathed for a moment before he stepped forward. The children followed him. 

"Jarvis, please call for a medical team," Steve murmured as they rode down in the elevator. "Avengers, Hawkeye is at Stark Tower. He's alive. We're awaiting a med team to evaluate, but he seems…okay."

For a beat, there was no reply. Then Natasha answered, and she was clear and collected, "Copy that, Captain."

"I will stay with Hawkeye," Steve added, "and deal with the situation here. You guys can deal with the remaining attack ships. Call me if you need my assistance."

"We won't," Natasha promised. "I'm taking over as interim leader. Iron Man, please report your position—"

Steve pulled the communication unit from his ear. "Jarvis, please let me know if they need me."

"Of course, sir."

Steve carried Clint to his own room, and the other three children trailed after. "I'm just going to put him to bed for now," he murmured, "until the medical team gets here." He gently set Clint down on the bed, realizing he'd picked Clint's 'side'. "There are other rooms. Or the couch in the living room," he offered. 

The other three kids shook their heads and climbed up on the bed—onto Steve's 'side'—and put their heads down. The bed was large enough for all of them, and Steve settled himself on the floor next to Clint. He kept one hand wrapped softly around Clint's wrist, grateful to feel the ever-steady beat of his pulse. 

~~~ 

Phil arrived with the medical team, twenty-two minutes after Captain Rogers had requested them. He'd ushered the team into the tower and escorted them to Steve's living space under Jarvis' direction. 

"Jarvis, the door?" he asked as they jogged down the hall. 

"Captain Rogers left it unlocked, Agent Coulson. Agent Barton and associates are in the master bedroom area."

Phil pushed the door open and continued to lead the medical team to the bedroom. He stepped to the side once he was through the doorway and let the team do their job. Phil blinked at the sight before him. Clint was there, on the bed, looking filthy and bruised, and quietly alive. But he was wearing his combat uniform, and his quiver was an empty lump against his back. Phil would wait for the final estimation by the medical team, but Clint looked generally intact, and something eased in Phil's chest at that realization. He'd been talking with Steve just last night about protecting Clint, and guiding him through hazards until he was prepared to work for SHIELD at a highly trained level. Phil should have known to never make plans where Clint was concerned. 

Steve was slumped on the floor with his back against the wall, and his knees drawn up. He had one hand on Clint's wrist and looked exhausted and pale with shock. He stood and moved to the side, hovering intently, when the head medic approached, but his attention never wavered for moment from the medical team, or from Clint. 

There were also three additional children sleeping on the other side of the bed. They were inadequately attired in Hawkeye and Black Widow battle fatigues, and it took Phil a moment to place them. Clint's friends from Xavier's school. Tobias Raenn, Ursula Drz, and Kia Lee-Ford. Mutants, and Phil didn't immediately recall their abilities. He would need to call Xavier's school and account for their whereabouts. Probably it would be best to be able to vouch for their safe and healthy state of being, and then promise a swift return. 

Phil caught the attention of a medic and pointed at the three children, and the man immediately rounded the bed to check them over as well. They roused when shaken gently, and other than extreme fatigue, seemed no worse for their dangerous adventure. The littlest one, Kia, seemed the most exhausted. The skin beneath her eyes was so thin it was nearly translucent. She rubbed at her eyes, made shooing motions in protest, and rolled herself away from the medic. 

"Jarvis," Phil asked quietly into his ear bud, "can you give me a quick synopsis of events beginning with Hawkeye's arrival at the tower?"

"Of course," Jarvis promptly replied. "Agent Barton arrived at the tower at 9:58 am in an SUV registered to the Xavier school. He parked it in the underground garage after being granted access. He and his three associates passed through the locker area, changed garments, and proceeded to the roof." Jarvis' voice took on a tone that Phil was sure he imagined as guarded. "Agent Barton provided the correct access code to override pre-set stipulations that he not be granted such access."

Phil knew that he hadn't given Clint those codes, and Natasha would never have done so either. He remembered Clint's penchant for dredging up door codes when they were at SHIELD, giving Phil hope that his friend was still somehow within, though nothing much more than door codes had provided evidence. "That's fine, Jarvis," he said. "I'm not surprised Clint recalled the codes. You performed appropriately." 

Phil had purposefully not changed the codes, even though he'd known Clint might use them. He had figured that if Clint were under enough stress that he remembered the codes, then he would actually need them. Phil hoped he'd made the right decision about that. 

"Thank you, sir," Jarvis responded. "Once stationed on the roof, two of the children and Agent Barton began an offensive against the invading force. At 11:37, Agent Barton provided the assessment that the drone ship was the point source, not the supposed mother-ship. Communications remained down, so Agent Barton engaged transport and dealt with said threat. Captain Rogers arrived on scene, and was informed of the prior information. One of Agent Barton's associates retrieved him after the success of his mission, and Captain Rogers brought the entourage here."

Phil thought over the words. "Retrieval?" Phil said. He'd been aware when communications had come on-line. He'd heard the pleading in Steve's request, and the resulting panic in Tony's voice. Phil had believed for terrible, horrifying moments that Clint was about to die, without knowing how or why it had come to pass. 

"Inadequate data was generated due to additional signature fluctuations at the time, however, scans indicated Agent Barton was not present prior to 11:41, and was accounted for at 11:42."

"What sort of fluctuations?" Phil asked. 

Jarvis sounded mildly appalled when he answered, "Additional materials were retrieved simultaneously with Agent Barton."

"What additional materials?" Phil asked.

Jarvis remained silent for a moment, then finally responded. "An excessive load of red-colored candy was deposited on the roof. Additional amounts also materialized in the vicinity outside the roof perimeter. No injuries to individuals on the ground were catalogued."

Phil remembered that when he had entered with the medical team that it had looked like someone had spilled a bag of jelly beans. He hadn't looked closely, though, and he hadn't noticed that many. "I need to gets eyes on this," Phil said. He checked on the medical team, but they were still examining Clint and the children on the bed. The third medic had finally pulled Steve aside, and was giving him a once over. 

Phil exited the room and went for the roof. When the elevator door opened, Phil couldn't believe his eyes. The entire roof was covered in red, now quite soft and gooey from the sun beating down on the roof materials. He also noted a small pile of oddly-shaped metal pieces, also covered in red jelly bean ooze. Phil carefully stepped out of the elevator and nudged the sticky puddle of red with his foot. Jelly beans covered every surface, as if it had rained down. Phil backed up. 

"Jarvis, you should probably call for a clean up of that. It doesn't look toxic, but it's going to be a mess."

"Already accomplished, sir."

~~~ 

Steve hovered near the medics. One had given him a quick check and not found fault, but Steve was anxious to hear about Clint. “They’re fine,” he said. “The little one is exhausted, and should get some fluids and a meal, and then some rest. But they’re all healthy and unhurt.” 

“Thank you,” Agent Coulson said, very much business-sharp and projecting his agent status like a powerful aura. Like this, Steve could only think of him as Agent Coulson, and not Phil, his friend. He flicked a glance to the medic still looking Clint over. “How long until I have a report on Hawkeye?”

The woman examining Clint paused and looked up, joining the conversation. "I'm pretty much done. He appears fine. His pulse, blood pressure, and other vitals are all normal. I'm not sure exactly why he isn't waking up. At this point, I'd prefer if we transported him to the hospital. Or to a SHIELD medical facility." 

Steve opened his mouth to interject, but Agent Coulson beat him to it. 

"But he's otherwise unhurt?" Agent Coulson asked. 

"Essentially."

Agent Coulson fixed a look at Steve while he spoke. "The hospitals are going to be a bit occupied with civilian casualties right now. As is SHIELD with agent injuries. This is a safe place. If he isn't in any immediate danger or need of additional medical attention, Agent Barton can remain here for now. If his condition deteriorates, we can reevaluate. Captain, if you'll escort the medical team out, you can resume your duties with the Avengers. I'll remain here with Agent Barton and the other children."

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but Coulson spoke again before he could. "They need you out there, Captain. If anything changes, I will inform you immediately."

Steve paused, weighing his own personal interests against the greater good, and the duties he had promised to perform. "Yes, sir," he finally said.

Agent Coulson nodded. "Very good. Then, the medical team is dismissed." He waited for them to gather their equipment and leave. As the last medic waited at the door to be escorted out of the tower, Agent Coulson threw Steve a meaningful look. "I'll contact the Xavier Institute about returning the children. Though I think Hawkeye should remain here for the foreseeable future."

"Sir—"

"He's going to be okay, Steve. I'll contact you if anything changes."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Steve was more than glad that Coulson had intervened. A hospital wouldn't spend a second thought on Clint, given his general state of non-injury, and Steve wasn't sure that sending Clint deep into the shadowy, closed-off rooms of SHIELD was a great choice. If Clint were his adult self, it would be a different story, but this younger version wasn't adept yet at playing SHIELD's games. Plus, they would have their hands full with their own injured agents, and with damage control. 

Agent Coulson gave him a last look, inscrutable, and then Steve took the medical team away.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's tomorrow's chapter a little early. I may not be able to post tomorrow.

Clint woke slowly, and calmly, and let the world filter in. He was in bed and comfortable, although still in his uniform. It was dark, but not completely so. Late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the shades at the window. He remembered falling, and being certain that he was about to break every bone in his body, and worse. Clint had watched Iron Man zooming toward him at an astounding rate of speed, actually blurry looking as he rocketed at Clint, but he'd estimated the distance and was sure that Iron Man wasn't going to make it. He'd had a scant few moments to regret a thousand different things as he scrabbled against nothing, his limbs feeling numb and slow. 

Then, he was literally yanked out of the air, juddering all his joints and making his spine click in his ears. All the air had been squeezed out of his lungs, and he'd flailed against the sudden removal of gravity, and everything had smelled like sugar, too fake and too sweet, sharp as the scent of cherries. He'd fallen again, but only a few feet, and he'd caught a glimpse of Kia's strained, tear-stained face, and realized that she'd teleported _him_ , but darkness was closing over his vision. All his energy had been sapped and he was _exhausted_ , so he'd closed his eyes, and the last sound he'd heard was that of hail hitting the ground all around him. 

Clint looked over and saw that Kia, Toby, and Ursula were sleeping on the bed as well. Relief washed over him. He'd worried about bringing them into the city, even though they'd insisted, and he'd needed their help. 

Clint took a deep breath and started to move gently. Nothing seemed broken. He flexed his hands and wiggled his toes. He wasn't hurt, other than being generally sore and achy. His head felt a little muzzy, and he was extremely thirsty. He rolled over to get out of the bed, and walked quietly to the bathroom. If the others were sleeping, he didn't want to wake them. 

After that, he made his way to the door and let himself into the main part of wherever it was he'd been resting. It was dim in the other space as well, though not as much as the bedroom. He could see that it was a living room, with bookshelves and a television, a couch and chairs, as well as a coffee table. Farther away was a small dining room with a table and high-backed chairs, and past that sprawled a tidy kitchen. It was a familiar set-up and Clint realized he was probably still somewhere within Stark Tower, in one of the Avenger's apartments. It wasn't Natasha's, which he knew, but he wasn't sure yet whose it was.

It looked lived in, and filled moderately with personal items. Clint moved quietly forward and realized as his view changed that someone was resting on the couch. The figure was slumped upright, but he blinked his eyes open momentarily, and Clint recognized Agent Coulson. 

"Hello, sir," Clint said softly. 

"Clint," Agent Coulson said, a small smile forming, "you're awake. How do you feel?"

"Fine, sir," Clint answered. "If you need me again, I'm ready to go."

Agent Coulson shook his head. "I think you've done enough already for today. You were right about the drone ship. The rest of the team is just finishing clean-up. I expect them back at the tower shortly."

Clint glanced uncertainly at the bedroom door. "Sir, my friends from school…I should take full responsibility for their being here. If…if there's any repercussions."

Agent Coulson's expression shifted to carefully schooled blankness, though his eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. "Repercussions will be discussed at some point, I'm sure. For now, though, I've already contacted your school and informed them of the situation. Depending on when the roads are cleared for civilian travel, either tonight or tomorrow, we'll transport your schoolmates back to Xavier's Institute."

"And me, sir?" Clint asked. There was a hollow feeling in his gut as he waited to hear his fate. 

"For the time being you're going to remain here with the team. We have some forms to fill out, and reports to write." Coulson let the pause drag out for a long moment. "Repercussions to discuss."

"I had to help," Clint said. "And no one actually told me I couldn't—"

Agent Coulson interrupted, his tone steady, although serious, "Communications were _down_. No one could have instructed you, one way or the other. No one knew you were here or involved, and you placed yourself in danger. You acted as a lone agent, rather than as part of the team."

Clint sucked in a breath, but instead of feeling chastised, he felt a hot flush of anger. "I tried to communicate. I left information with Jarvis! And if I hadn't been here, the drone ship would have just kept on sending forces out—"

Agent Coulson cut him off again, his usually mild voice hardened with steel, "You're not authorized to make those decisions. You're not yet _trained_ to deal with these contingencies—" Suddenly Agent Coulson closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He hunched forward and looked at the floor, and made a strangled noise. 

Clint stepped forward, instantly concerned. "Sir?"

Agent Coulson waved him back. "I apologize, Clint." He sighed and shook his head, still not looking up. "You did what you thought needed to be done. Just like you've always done." His voice went soft, and Clint strained to hear his words. "It was just…when you were yourself, before, I knew you would get out of it. You were experienced, and trained, and the most capable agent I knew. And…you made your own decisions knowingly. But you're _seventeen_ now, and you're still making those same sacrificing decisions, and it's harder to watch. But you did it then, and you do it now, and I shouldn't expect it to change." He gave a dry chuckle. "I'd have had this same conversation with you, even if you were still an adult."

"Yes, sir," Clint whispered. He moved to sit next to Agent Coulson on the couch. "I'm really sorry. Really. I won't do it again."

Agent Coulson laughed. "Don't make promises you'll never keep, Clint. You'll do it again, and probably again. It's what we do. Sometimes we used to have this conversation the other way around, and you'd try to get me to see sense."

Clint gave a tentative smile. "Really?"

"Really." Agent Coulson finally straightened. "And you'll certainly have this same conversation with Natasha. She's going to be exceptionally disturbed at your actions."

Clint's throat felt suddenly tight, so he just nodded. 

"But there will be repercussions. Your heroics put everyone into a panic. And you really aren't authorized for this level of involvement."

Clint nodded. He figured that Iron Man probably wasn't too happy about flying at breakneck speed toward someone who vanished. He'd have to apologize for that, even if he didn't mean for it to happen. Clint swallowed, and refocused his attention. "If I might ask, where are we? This is still the tower, but whose rooms are we in?"

"Steve's apartment," Agent Coulson told him. 

"Oh," Clint said, and felt suddenly strung tight. Captain America's living space. Where he must have lived with Clint, back _before_ , at least sometimes. He wished Agent Coulson would leave, so he could look around. Would his things be here? Pictures of them together? A new thought wormed into his brain. Had he just been sleeping in _their_ bed? He flushed warm, then cold at the possibility.

Agent Coulson's intelligent eyes never wavered, and his observant gaze sharpened. "Clint?" he asked. "What is it?"

Clint shrugged, trying to feign nonchalance. "Nothing, sir. I just…hadn't been in anyone's room other than Natasha's."

Agent Coulson's gaze narrowed. "Steve watched you. As you fell. And he was on the roof of the tower when one of your friends retrieved you. He brought you all down here."

Clint's mouth went dry. "I saw Iron Man," he said, as if it explained things. He wasn't sure what to think about Steve's action, and he shied away from them. "Trying to catch me. I knew he was too far away."

"Clint," Agent Coulson said, "you do know how…much you mean to the others, right? They care very much about you. It hasn't been a small thing, what's happened to you."

Clint looked at his hands, unsure what to say. Emotions swelled within him, and he was confused. 

"We haven't told you everything about yourself," Agent Coulson said, speaking carefully. "You know that. Some of it you've learned just through being here for some time now, but there are other topics we haven't covered—"

Clint leaned forward, hope pressing against his ribcage. He wanted confirmation of the eavesdropping where he'd learned the secret. About Steve, and himself.

A noise at the front door caught Agent Coulson's attention and he turned, words drying up. Clint followed his gaze, and saw that Steve had returned. 

~~~ 

Steve opened his own front door to find Phil and Clint sitting together on the couch. His first reaction was a deep, wrenching flash of relief. Clint hadn't left his thoughts for the hours he had coordinated the last of the barrages against lone war ship holdovers, or helped direct the beginnings of clean-up, and the remaining acts of rescue. Weary and tired, Steve had only wanted to return, to check on Clint, but he'd held off with Phil's assurances ringing in his ears that he would call as soon as anything changed. The memory of carrying Clint down from the roof was visceral and close, the warmth of him against Steve's chest, and the familiar scent of him, under the charred smoke and battle smells, and Steve had pushed it all away to focus on his duties, but those were over now, and he had returned home. 

"Clint," Steve said, and built an impromptu wall around his heart as it ached, wishing that _his_ Clint was back, but glad beyond belief that this Clint was awake, and safe. 

"Hey," Clint said. "Agent Coulson was just telling me…what happened."

Steve glanced to Phil, who gave him a tight nod. "It's been about five minutes. I was explaining what happened while he was recovering. The other children are still sleeping in the bedroom." Phil consulted his phone, frowning at it momentarily. "Road reports indicate that we can now bring them back safely to the school." Phil looked between Steve and Clint. "We shouldn't send them home hungry. I'll call in an order for food delivery, we can eat, and then I'll drive them back." He started to tap on his phone. "I'll also let Natasha know that Clint will be staying with her—"

With a look at Steve, Clint interrupted, "Sir, I'm already here. If Captain Rogers doesn't mind, I'll just stay here for the night."

"I don't think that would be best," Phil responded, with a calm expression. "Natasha is better equipped to deal with any possible memory resurgence issues."

"Please. Sir." Clint stood up from the couch, his hands tightened into fists at his side. 

Steve intervened. "It's fine, Agent Coulson. Clint can stay the night and tomorrow we can move him back to Natasha's space. One night isn't an imposition." Steve moved into the kitchen area and started filling his percolator. He liked the new way of making coffee with the drip machine, and it tasted wonderful, but the way the percolator made it always tasted of home, and his own time, and was familiar and safe. He needed that grounding right now. He also needed to keep his space from Clint, or he was going to crush him into a hug, and possibly never let go again. 

"I'll take the couch," Clint said. 

"I have a spare bedroom," Steve answered, "the same as Agent Romanoff. There's plenty of space." He finished setting up the coffee, and gestured at himself. His uniform was torn, and he was filthy, and probably didn't smell very nice. "In fact, I think I'll use it right now to shower. Agent Coulson, if you wouldn't mind waking the others as soon as you've made the arrangements for the food?"

"Of course," Phil replied, and Steve could see the worry and concern in his eyes. Steve gave him a slow shake of his head. He could handle having Clint stay over for one night. 

Steve slipped into the second bedroom suite, glad he had some spare clothes stashed there also, and took his shower. The heat of the water was lulling and soothing, and he lingered for a while there, letting his emotions temper. He would need to be dispassionate for the evening. It was difficult to deal with all the fears that had been kicked up when he'd thought that Clint was going to die, but there was no place for them right now. He had to set them aside for later. 

When he emerged, clean and dressed, he saw that Phil had taken care of everything. Phil was on his phone, walking circles in the kitchen as he dealt with something or other. The kids were all up, and eating pizza at the dining room table, their heads together. The box was empty, with a few pieces set aside on a separate plate obviously for Steve, and they looked nearly done. He could hear their whispers, and if he paid attention, his enhanced hearing would pick up the words. 

"…Captain America, on the roof, I thought he was going to fall over when you…."

"…jelly beans, you should have seen it…."

"…are you going to tell him…."

"…we are going to be in so much trouble, what do you think Professor Xavier is going to do…."

Steve approached the table and they all fell silent. 

"Captain," Clint said, standing. "These are my friends. Kia. Ursula. Toby. This is Steve Rogers, Captain America."

"I'm very pleased to formally meet you all," Steve said. He looked at Clint and then back at the others. "And thank you, again, for rescuing Clint from…from falling."

Clint and the older two kids turned to look at Kia, the youngest, and Kia flushed and dipped her head down. Clint smiled and nudged her on the shoulder. "Yeah, good thing you didn't stay behind." 

Phil came out of the kitchen, pocketing his phone. "It's time to go."

The kids all gave Clint a hug. "Don't let them keep you forever," said Ursula. She brushed her hand across Clint's forehead in an odd gesture, and Steve suddenly wondered if this younger Clint had different thoughts about things. Perhaps Steve had lost even the presumption of being noble and letting Clint get on with his life. Perhaps it was only Steve who would know his loss. That stung a lot more than he wanted to admit. 

"I'll check in on you later," Phil said as he shepherded the kids out the door, and gave Steve a meaningful look. 

When the door clicked behind him, Steve turned to Clint. "It's getting late," he said. "I'll clean up while you go take a shower. I put some clothes out on the spare bed for you to change into. Sweats and a shirt. Then we'll get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be busy."

"Thank you," Clint said, as he walked to the second bedroom door.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings at the End Notes.

Clint closed the bedroom door behind him and took a deep breath. Finally, he was alone, and he could explore the space a little. He scanned items in the room, but was disappointed. It really looked like nothing more than an extra bedroom for a guest, and nothing much to do with his older self's relationship with Steve Rogers. There was a nice double bed, perfectly made, with a red, white, and blue striped bedspread. There was a nightstand with a lamp and an old-fashioned alarm clock. In fact, now that Clint looked, it seemed like everything was styled to look older, even if it actually wasn't. He supposed that was either to make Steve feel comfortable, or because if Steve picked things out, that's what he'd like. Clint tucked that little bit of observation away for use at some later time. 

Clint passed over the clothes folded at the end of the bed. He would look at those in a moment. He opened the closet door and peered in, but it only contained extra blankets and pillows. There wasn't anything in this space at all that he couldn't find in a nice hotel room. He sighed. It made sense. _If_ they actually were having a relationship, then wouldn't they have stayed in the same room? Together? Clint wouldn't be sleeping over, only to stay in the guest bedroom. 

Clint felt his face grow warm. The bed he'd slept in earlier. He closed his eyes and wished he could remember. 

Clint shut the closet door and went to the bathroom. Again, it was just an ordinary bathroom, with soap and shampoo, and a few other bottles for guests to use. There was a pile of towels, blue with white stars all over them. 

Clint stripped off his uniform and folded it as small as it would go. It reeked of soot and char, and they'd probably have to throw it out. Then he showered quickly, cataloging where he ached, and where he was developing bruises. He dried himself off with a towel and finally went to look at the clothes that had been left for him. 

He'd already grown nearly an inch since waking up in the future, and he'd put on a few pounds of muscle. The clothes Agent Coulson had bought for him were tight now, and Clint had been trying to figure out what he was going to do about that. He didn't get money for being an Avenger—not that they seemed to want to really let him be one—and going to school wasn't a paying gig. Trading to do chores was fine for buying jelly beans, but it wouldn't be enough to afford the sort of clothes that he'd need to fit in at school. He was going to need to bring it up with Agent Coulson at some point, but he'd been putting it off as long as he could. He didn't want to mention one more thing that made him a burden, not when there was so much going on that he never wanted to let go of. 

These clothes fit him really well, though. They were slightly baggy and loose, but they were instantly comfortable. Clint inspected himself in the mirror. Well worn grey sweatpants, a white t-shirt without any markings, and a dark blue sweatshirt with a hood, equally without markings. Steve had even laid out a clean pair of underwear. Clint wasn't anywhere near Steve's size. The man had a few inches on him, and shoulders as broad as the nation itself. These weren't Steve's clothes, Clint realized with a dawning sense of oddness. These were his own clothes. 

Steve had dug them out because Clint has previously left his own clothes _here_. 

Clint wrapped his arms around his torso for a long moment and dwelled on that thought. It was true, then. What he'd overheard. His clothes might have been here for some other reason, but it seemed unlikely. 

Clint let out a shaky breath. That was good. It was okay. He'd been having a relationship with Captain America.

Clint wished he still was. 

Steve treated him so well, it was easy to see why he would like him. But Steve hadn't even mentioned the relationship. Was he ashamed? Or…Clint didn't understand what had happened. Perhaps they'd had a fight, and broken up just before he'd changed. That was probably it. Steve would have still wanted the team to work, which made sense why he was kind and professional. 

Clint didn't know what they would have fought about. Or whose fault it would have been. If it was his, then he would apologize. For whatever.

Or perhaps it was because Clint wasn't who he used to be. He must have changed a lot over all those years. He couldn't even imagine what sort of person he might have become, but to be the kind of man that would become an Avenger, a _hero_ , and to catch the eye of Captain America himself? Clint was probably a meager shadow of that guy. Possibly Captain America wasn't at all interested in a severely watered-down version of Clint Barton.

He wished Steve would talk to him. 

Clint looked at himself in the mirror again, and drew the hood up over his head. Maybe he could ask Agent Coulson about it, and then ask him to retrieve his old clothes. He could fit into them now, just about, so nobody had to buy anything. Clint liked that solution. He figured he should be entitled to his own clothes. 

Clint finally left the bedroom, walking out into the living area. The hood obscured his view for a moment, and it was easy to pretend that he belonged here. "So, what's the deal for tomorrow, Cap?" he asked as he sauntered, acting a little more brazen than he felt. 

There was a strangled noise, and Clint turned to see Steve staring at him, ashen, as if he'd seen a ghost. "Steve? Sir?" Clint tried again, confused, and worried. 

Steve sucked in air and his color returned. "Sorry," he said, the words almost too soft to hear. "I forgot…you just…were so…."

It clicked in Clint's head. Of course, his voice was all matured already, and in his old clothes, hood up to cover his face, and pretend swagger…it would have seemed like he was grown up again. "I'm really sorry," he said, and pushed the hood back down off his head. 

"It's fine," Steve said, and he gave a small smile. "You…ah…used to spend some time hanging out here. We were friends. So, I'm used to your being here…and, it just…. Well."

Clint nodded. "I feel comfortable here," he said, "like I've been here a lot."

A dopey look crossed Steve's face, and Clint felt a little guilty about exaggerating a little, but he pushed it down. He _did_ feel comfortable here. Because Steve was here, and it just seemed so _natural_ to relax. 

"Clint," Steve said, looking decided, and something about his voice made Clint flinch. "I need to speak with you for a moment. About a serious matter."

"Okay," Clint said. 

Steve gestured to the couch and Clint moved to it and sat down. Steve did the same, leaning forward, his hands clasped together between his knees. Steve's expression was so earnest that Clint felt a knot form in his chest. 

"I realize that I should have told you this sooner, but it's a tough subject, and there never seemed to be a right time."

"It's okay," Clint said. "Agent Coulson explained that nobody's told me everything yet. Top secret clearance, and all that."

Steve gave a grim smile. "This was one of those open secret sort of things. The rest of the team knows, but it isn't public knowledge. Can you handle that level of clearance?" 

It felt almost like a joke to Clint, but it still contained a thread of unease and concern, so Clint responded with sincerity. "I can. Whatever it is, I won't tell. Not to my friends at school, or anyone else."

A corner of Steve's mouth crooked up into a baleful smile. "Thank you, Clint. I appreciate it." Steve took a deep breath. "When you were your older self, you and I were very good friends. And after a while, we ended up being more than friends." Steve gave a short nod as if to punctuate the statement. "It makes things complicated, of course. But I wanted to let you know. In case anyone else on the team mentioned it. So you heard it from me. But, Clint, I want to be clear, that you don't have to be concerned. I fully recognize that you aren't your old self, and I'm just glad to have you as a teammate. I don't expect or anticipate anything else other than our working together as Avengers, and I think you proved yourself today. You're more than capable of being on the team and holding your own, and I'm proud of what you accomplished, and very glad you're unharmed." Steve gave another of those punctuating head nods, and pushed himself to standing. "I'll see you in the morning."

Clint stared as Steve stood up and patted him on the shoulder, and then went into his bedroom, and shut the door behind him. After a moment, Clint went to the door and knocked to let Steve know he was there, but didn't wait for an answer. He opened the door a crack and slipped in to the darkness. 

Steve was already in bed. "Clint," he said, voice strained, "I meant what I said about being teammates—"

"I have questions," Clint said. His heart was pounding in his chest. Steve did not get to just dole out flat statements and then say _good-night_ and _pleased to meet you_ , and not deal with Clint. He did _not_ just get to say _so long, so glad to know you_ and waltz away. 

"Oh, of course." Steve clicked on the light on the stand next to his bed. "I should have realized."

"What do you mean, more than friends?" Clint asked. "More than _what_?"

Steve was looking down at his clasped hands again. It took a very long moment before he spoke, and when he did it was the sound of grief. "We had a committed relationship. A partnership. We'd made quiet promises to each other. Not in front of anyone, and not on paper, just to ourselves." Steve shook his head, but still didn't look at Clint. "I didn't want you to bear this burden, Clint. It wasn't your promise, and I don't hold you to it. I'm just thankful that you're alive, and safe, and even if we aren't together, that you're here. It's more than enough to see you, and work with you, and I appreciate that we can be teammates, and I enjoy that. But you have to understand that it is difficult for me. That has nothing to do with you, and it isn't your problem. It won't affect where we go from here. But I'm glad that you know now." Steve sucked in more air and spoke again, and this time he did look up, and fixed his gaze directly on Clint. "But I made the promise, and I'm still me, so if you ever need anything, Clint. You just have to ask. I want to be there for you. An…an older brother, or…a friend, or whatever you want to think of it. But you're not alone, Clint. I will always be there for you."

Clint blinked, and then blinked again. He tried to swallow, and couldn't. He concentrated on breathing, actively thinking about air going in, and air going out. He'd thought they'd been _dating_. He'd hoped he'd been getting lucky enough to have had _sex_ with Steve, who was the absolute hottest guy he'd ever seen. Clint's libido jumped halfway to the moon every time he thought about Steve. But apparently they'd been _serious_. Fuck. 

Steve gave him a slow nod and a very small smile. "That's a lot all at once. Why don't you sleep on it, in the other room, and we can talk again in the morning. You can ask me questions. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

Clint managed to nod, but he didn't want to leave the room. A serious relationship seemed unfathomable, but it also seemed _inevitable_ and something in his head was clawing to the surface, whispering at him, _love him, don't hurt him_ and Clint suspected it might be himself. It was a desperate feeling, of wanting to be _himself_ and to comfort Steve, because Clint could see all the broken fractures. Then, a memory was there, perfectly formed in crystal, and Clint said, "It was the fireworks. The grand finale. I'd taken you to the park, and there were people all around. Children, and families, and dogs. We played Frisbee."

Steve's eyes had grown huge and round. "It was the first time I'd enjoyed fireworks. They'd seemed too much like explosions, and ordinance, too close to the war."

Clint nodded, and the memory was still there, diamond-clear. "You wiped away dirt from my cheek with your thumb." He could remember how rough Steve's thumb had been, calloused and tough from years of gritty work, and hard use.

"Yes," Steve said, "and we both sort of knew we were going to be something more than just friends, after that. Clint? How…."

Clint shook his head. "Sometimes things come to me. Agent Coulson thinks eventually most of it'll return, even if Tony and Bruce don't figure out how to change me back. I might never be _him_ again. But he isn't really _gone_. Not entirely."

Steve made a low sound, and then gathered himself up again. "That's good. Whatever happens, Clint, you'll be good, whoever you are. Now, get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

Clint shook his head and took three steps forward until he was at the edge of the bed. It was an enormous king-sized bed. Carefully, he crawled forward until he was on the other side. "Is this my side?" he asked.

"Clint, this isn't going to happen," Steve said. "You're a teenager. And I'm…sad that the other you isn't here." Clint could hear the rejected words that Steve hadn't spoken: mourning, grieving, heartbroken, lamenting, weeping. Even in his sorrow, Steve was trying to carry the full burden himself, and spare none for anyone else. Clint could hear it in Steve's voice, that he was haunted and desolate, and the older portion of Clint was near frantic to soothe it, to calm him, and tend to him. 

"My side of the bed," Clint said, claiming ownership. He reached out a hand to make contact with Steve's elbow. "Nothing will happen, Steve. I promise that. I'm not going to try anything. Or ask for anything. But I think you need…." Clint frowned—it felt grandiose to claim that Steve needed Clint there so he could sleep. But the idea felt right to him, and there were echoes of memories, of Steve not always sleeping well, so long ago. Clint pulled the covers over himself and put his head down on the pillow and closed his eyes. 

Steve clicked off the light, and Clint could see past his eyelids that the room went dark. Then, Steve whispered, "Sleep tight, Clint." Then he settled down, and all was quiet. 

~~~

In the morning, Steve woke to the feeling of having his back pressed against someone else's back, and he scooted away and rolled over. Clint yawned and stretched, and rubbed a hand through his hair, making it all stand up on end. 

"Sleep well?" Steve asked. 

"Yeah," Clint replied, muzzy-voiced, with his eyes still mostly closed. "You?"

"Like a rock," Steve said, and realized that for the first time in weeks, he really had gotten a good night's rest. He supposed it did have to do with Clint being there. When he was within arm's reach, Steve didn't have to worry about him. Even if Steve knew there wasn't anything to worry about when Clint was at school—a nice, private, luxurious mansion, where Clint was educated and fed—but still, Steve liked to have his eyes on the situation. 

"Told you. Maybe now you won't shunt me off to Natasha's space, just cause you're stubborn." Clint gave a languid stretch. "Not that I mind, since we do all sorts of spy tricks together."

"Spy tricks?" Steve frowned. 

"Sure. Handstands on the edge of the tower and stuff. Who can do it the longest."

"I don't think Agent Romanoff would—" Steve paused and narrowed his eyes. "You're jesting." The constriction around his chest released just a little and Steve laughed. "Still, maybe you should stay here…." Steve swallowed. He wanted that, of course. But it didn't make it a good idea. "We can talk with Agent Coulson about it."

"Why do we have to ask Phil?" Clint said, still yawning and stretching, and looking hardly awake. He crawled out of bed. "I'm going to make coffee. Do you want it black today or cream and sugar? And I'm not putting that chicory stuff in it." He rolled off the bed and to his feet and moved lithely away. 

Steve stared after him. "Clint?" he asked. "Is that…are you…there?" The 'Phil' calling could have been a mistake, even though Steve had only ever heard Clint refer to Agent Coulson with great respect, as if he were an octogenarian librarian who would never have a first name. But the coffee—very, very few people knew that Steve had multiple preferences for his coffee. Most assumed he'd have one way that he liked it, like most people. And perhaps only Clint knew that sometimes Steve liked chicory in his coffee, something he'd picked up on the road when he'd been selling war bonds, and in the war when coffee was often cut with diluents. It was almost too much to hope for, that more and more of Clint _would_ come back. Steve didn't care about the outer package, although he was glad that Clint no longer suffered from hearing loss, or the aches and pains of years worth of injuries. But to have _Clint_ back, the way he was…. 

"Course I'm here, Stevie, where would I be?" The reply was slightly teasing. 

Steve's heart gave a leap. It was a tongue-in-cheek nickname, but only Clint had used it, and only in private. Steve moved very carefully to peer around the doorframe and watch Clint as he moved sleepily around the kitchen. Clint hummed as he filled the carafe with cold water and then poured it into the coffee maker. He retrieved the coffee grounds from the cupboard without searching for it, and he punched buttons on the drip coffee machine like he already knew how it worked. Steve moved more fully into the wide open living space. 

"What's on tap for today?" Clint asked. "Training, assembling?" Clint threw a wink at Steve. "Or do you want to stay in and just take care of ourselves?" He sighed with gratitude as the coffee maker started. "I suppose I should get back to…." He frowned, and Steve's guts twisted. "Back to school? Is that right? Professor…Xavier…I think I might have gotten myself expelled?" Clint looked confused. He put a hand up to his head, and then looked up at Steve. "I had the weirdest dream," he said. "I was all grown up."

"I know," Steve said, and he moved forward and opened his arms to take Clint into a gentle hug. "You were half asleep, I think, just now."

"Yeah," Clint said, and he sagged against Steve. "I feel like I'm still dreaming. If this isn't real, I don't want to wake up."

Steve closed his eyes, and didn't let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some physical contact between Steve and Clint. Nothing untoward, but they finally get some comfort hugging in.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last day of posting is here!!
> 
> There will be one last chapter after this one. Whew! Thank you all for coming on this long ride with me! It's been a blast! And today is my birthday, so I will have the last chapter up sometime this evening!

Phil knocked on the door to Steve's apartment sixty minutes before the first morning meeting. When Steve opened the door, Phil could see the strain on his face, in the harrowed contours and dulled, washed away shoulder slump instead of the usual vibrancy. The stress was there faintly, in the little lines of his forehead and the slightly off-color, ashen grey tone of his skin. “What happened?” Phil asked mildly as he entered. “Where’s Clint?”

The area smelled strongly of coffee, and Phil could see that the drip machine had been used, so he guessed that Clint had done that, knowing Steve’s preference for the percolator, but there wasn’t evidence of anything else. No bowls in the drainer, no crumbs on the counter, and very little had been moved. In fact, the coffee carafe was full, untouched, as if it had been started and then abandoned. Phil motioned to the coffee and Steve gave him a help-yourself gesture. 

“He’s in the shower,” Steve said. “We were both a little upset. He…ah…he remembered himself. Just for a minute. Then it all faded and he forgot again.” 

Phil retrieved mugs from the cupboard and poured two cups of coffee, one for himself, and the other he put in Steve’s hand. “Black, right?” he asked. 

Steve stared at the coffee as if it held answers to all the secrets. “Most of the time,” he said, but shook his head at Phil’s raised eyebrow and didn’t elaborate. Steve took a sip of the coffee and smiled. “It’s good. Haven’t had it this way in a while.”

“So why do you think Clint remembered? Was there a trigger? Was he doing something? Something that we could repeat? Enhance upon?” Phil sipped his own coffee, and thought about those questions. He had more, of course, but they were enough to start with. 

There was one other person that had undergone a similar mishap as Clint, but that person had regressed all the way down to a toddler. The single, scant eyewitness account that they had described the victim as being cognizant and maintaining his mental integrity as he regressed. In fact, the victim has been ranting in frustration and anger during the incident. Phil knew this because right after the battle where Clint was initially regressed, Spider-man had admitted that he knew some information, and Phil had tracked him down, even before Clint was out of the hospital, and then again later to double-check that the tale he told had stayed consistent, and with new information at hand. Spider-man had been very forthcoming, and brilliant in his assessment of the situation. Phil had been surprised to find such an able scientific mind hidden behind the mask. 

But the information Spider-man supplied had been minimally useful. Whatever had happened to the first victim, it hadn’t been exactly the same as the effect on Clint. Clint hadn’t regressed to a toddler, and he didn’t recall his adult memories. Still, Spider-man had hypothesized that as Clint grew older he would recover the memories, and that they hadn’t been erased, just embedded deeper than current recovery. Phil had mentioned Clint’s knowledge of the door codes, and Spider-man had thought hard about that, suggesting that perhaps some or all of the memories were recoverable, and that some would surface, particularly under certain situations. Not quite trusting the scientific savvy of a vigilante superhero, Phil had taken those theories back to the SHIELD scientists, and Stark and Banner, and everyone agreed that it was _possible_ , and then argued about how _likely_ such occurrences would be. 

After days and days of nothing more than door codes, Phil had decided that unlikely seemed to be the case rather than likely, but the recent weekend had been full of trigger points and stressors not present at the Xavier school. Phil was reassessing that _likely_ was on a sliding scale and could be manipulated. That meant that even if Stark and Banner never figured out how to reverse the operation, there was still a chance that Clint wasn’t lost to them forever. More triggers and more stressors might continue to bring out additional memories, until they had Clint back, in mind if not in form. Phil was a practical person, and he generally kept his calm on the inside as well as the outside, but just for a moment, he let himself blow a gentle breath to encourage the small ember of hope that he kept hidden in his chest. 

Steve held his mug close to his face but didn't drink. He stared across the surface, unfocused. "We talked last night. About the relationship that existed between us from before his incident. It was a difficult talk, but not a bad one." Steve shook his head. "I let him sleep on the other side of the bed. I shouldn't have, but we were both exhausted, and he'd told me about a memory, from when we'd first started dating, and it felt more like our Clint. Which isn't an excuse, just a reason why. When he woke up this morning, he said a few things, and he was _himself_. Just for a minute. Then, he forgot again, and…. Well."

Phil put a cautious hand on Steve's upper arm. "That's good, though. He started to remember, even if just a little." Phil was thoughtful for a moment. "It could be the time he's spent with you, or being here in your living space. Either one might be a trigger. It could be the familiarity. Don't give up, Steve. It might be a long, dark, winding path, but I've never know Clint Barton to not find his way home again."

Steve nodded. "I know, and you're right. It just…it hurts to have him so close, and yet so far."

"Hang in there," Phil said. 

~~~ 

Clint didn't really need another shower, but he was going to take one anyway. He'd wanted an excuse to get away from Steve. 

Clint ran the water in the shower, intending to get in and at least go through the motions, but found he just couldn’t. For all that he’d wanted more than anything to _know_ about Steve, and the apartment, and his own life here, now that he did, it was overwhelming. He'd remembered himself, and everything that he had been, not just little snippets or tones of emotions, but _everything_ , and now he knew how much he'd lost. How much just wasn't there anymore. Specifics were fading now, but Clint shuddered under the weight of who he'd been. He'd made promises that he couldn’t remember, and promises were made _to_ him, and right now it was just overwhelming and he wanted out. 

“Jarvis?” he asked. “Is there a way out of here that isn’t through the front?”

“There are emergency releases on the windows, but otherwise, the main door is the only egress,” Jarvis responded. 

Clint paced back and forth. “Is Natasha in the tower?”

“Yes. She is currently in her quarters.”

“Can you tell her I’m going to come down?”

“Of course.” Then a moment later. “Done, sir. Agent Romanoff is expecting you.”

Clint left the shower water running and walked over to the bedroom door. “One more thing,” Clint said. “Can you tell Steve and Agent Coulson that they’re needed down in the lab really urgently?”

There was a long pause, as if Jarvis had to decide if the action was against his programming, and Clint started desperately trying to think of another plan, and then Jarvis responded, “Captain Rogers and Agent Coulson have vacated the premises and are currently en route to the laboratory space. You may find taking the second set of elevator banks to be the most efficient means of transport for yourself.”

“Jarvis, you’re the best,” Clint said, and he turned the water in the shower off, and then he bolted from the apartment, and into the hallway. Jarvis must have manipulated the elevators because one was waiting for him, and it made no extra stops in going down to Natasha’s level. Clint walked through the hallway with exaggerated calm, just in case he encountered someone, although it was very unlikely. 

Natasha opened the door even before he squared up in front of it, and she ushered him in. “Here,” she said, and pushed a mug of something warm into his hands as she guided him to the couch. 

“What is it?” he asked, sniffing at the drink cautiously. It smelled heavenly, of coffee and nuts, and had a muted, beige-brown color. 

“Used to be one of the drinks you liked, sometimes.”

Clint took a small sip and found that he did like it. It wasn’t very sweet, but it was creamy, and the scent of nuts that wafted all around him was divine. “It’s good,” he said, and found he was grateful for the warmth in his hands, since his fingers had grown cold. 

Natasha retrieved her own mug and then sat with Clint on the couch. “So, what’s happened?” she asked. 

Clint paused to gather his thoughts, and took another sip of coffee, grateful again for the motion that allowed him space and time to think. He took a deep breath, and looked down at his hands and the mug of coffee that he held. “I know about Steve and me.”

“I thought you might,” Natasha said mildly.

Clint glanced up at her, startled. 

“I’m very good at reading people, and you aren’t yet as good at hiding things as you used to be.”

“The others—" Clint said, an edge of panic creeping over him. 

Natasha shook her head. “They don’t know. You aren’t that open of a book.” She lifted an eyebrow. “So, what happened?"

Clint nodded, miserable again. "I overheard Tony and Bruce talking, so I've suspected for a while. But, I didn't know for sure, and I didn't really _believe_ it until…Steve told me. Yesterday. And it was fine. It seemed…okay. But I think it was because I…” Clint struggled with how to describe what had happened, and how he’d felt. “I was remembering. Not facts or memories or anything, but just, it didn’t seem crazy. It felt right, and I wanted to be close to Steve. I didn't know the details, just how much I cared about him. So, I….” Clint felt his face grow warm and knew he was blushing. “He let me sleep on the other side of the bed. Nothing happened.”

Natasha’s expression let him know that she thought the earth would freeze over and penguins would elect an Emperor before Steve would have even laid a pinkie finger on Clint.

“And when I woke up, I wasn’t me anymore,” Clint whispered. This was the thing that was the worst. “I was _him_. I mean, I was me, but I wasn’t. But I was grown-up again. And I didn’t care that I wasn’t me. I felt like I’d slept really hard, and waking up was like swimming through mud. I remembered everything, and didn’t know what day it was, just that Steve was there, so it had to be okay, and I went to the kitchen to make coffee. It felt so good, so right. Then suddenly, it was all gone, and I was just me again.” The words had come out all in a rush, leaving Clint to gasp a bit of air back into his lungs as he looked at Natasha, pleading with her to understand. 

She took a slow sip of her own drink, looking at him over the rim of the mug. “It feels like being bereft of your soul.”

Clint stopped breathing for a moment, and stared at her. He hadn't expected her to say something like that, something that got to the truth of it. “Yes,” he whispered. “I wanted it back, more than anything. But I also _hated_ that I wasn’t me anymore. And I was so much _less_ then before, and I get it. Why you want _him_ back. And not just me."

Natasha nodded her head slowly. “There is no easy choice for you. I think eventually you will find your way. You will stay as you are, and grow up. Or return to who you were. Either one means the absence of the other.”

Clint hunched into the couch and stared at his mug of coffee, but didn’t feel like drinking any. Natasha scooted closer to him, pressing her thigh along his, and put an arm around him. He leaned into her, and hoped she couldn't tell that he was shaking. “We deal with life and death every day,” she told him. “There will be life, either way. We all miss the Clint Barton who was, but we will also miss the Clint Barton that is. We will rejoice to know that whomever you are, that you are here with us, and alive.”

Clint leaned into her. She felt very safe, and warm. After a long period of silence, he asked, “And what about Steve?”

“He is a soldier, and a survivor. He’ll be okay. He will always love you,” she said, her voice soothing and calm. “He will mourn the loss of the Clint he loved, but he will go on.”

“It’s just that…it’s a lot. Being in love with Captain America. A serious sort of love. I always felt attracted to him. But I didn’t think it was _forever_.” Clint couldn't find the words he wanted to express how _disappointed_ he thought Steve must be, to have made promises to a competent, capable, grown-up Clint, and then to be left with only the outline of the man, not yet filled in. If Clint hadn't felt the tremendous expansion of who he would become, he wouldn't have understood, but Steve deserved who he had been, and Clint desperately wished he could give Steve that. But he couldn't. Clint huddled against Natasha, back muscles painfully tight, and wondered why he still felt so cold. He flexed the fingers of the hand not holding the warm mug of coffee, and they felt stiff and swollen.

Natasha brushed her fingers across the back of Clint’s hand and then fluttered across the inside of his wrist. “Those aren’t your promises, Clint. Those are Steve’s. He knows that, and he understands. You don’t have to reciprocate anything. You can go and find your own love. A new love, one or many. Or even none at all. Steve will always be your friend, and he will always care for you.”

“What if…what if maybe I would want to try…but, it just feels so….”

“Steve’s a patient man,” Natasha said. She lifted the mug of coffee out of Clint’s hands and placed it on the end table. Then she put her own mug there as well. “He wouldn’t abandon you in sickness, or infirmity. I think he would be willing to wait a little, until you grow up enough. He’s going to wait on you regardless.”

“Mmph,” Clint said, mulling that over. It seemed an awfully long time to wait. Incredibly long. When did one finally become an adult? Eighteen? Twenty-one? Twenty-three, and he could become an Agent again? The impossibility of it was crushing against him. 

Natasha moved her fingers across his wrist again, and Clint felt somewhat drowsy, weariness taking over as his panic ebbed away. The barest hint of warmth was suffusing into him, where he pressed against Natasha. He felt somewhat calmer, and things seemed plain, and clear in a way they hadn't a minute ago. He wondered if clarity came with accepting the inevitable. "I don't want to die, Tasha," he murmured. "But I think I'll have to, so you can have him back. So Steve can have him back."

Natasha spoke again, and her voice was smooth, lulling him down, “Nobody is going to die. You don’t need to worry about it right now. Just rest, and it’ll work itself out. Steve can take care of himself. Okay?”

“Mmm,” Clint responded, and even though he should have been rested, he felt as if he couldn’t surface again to wakefulness. He let sleep drag him down again. 

~~~

Steve stood in the elevator with Phil and they both leaned against opposite sides of the car. "Do you think we can go back yet?" Steve asked. 

Phil nodded and checked his watch. "He probably left within 30 seconds of us. Jarvis?"

"Agent Barton has reached the second set of elevators and is no longer on this level," Jarvis intoned. 

"Let's go back," Phil said. He reached out and hit the open button, and the door slid wide. They left the elevator and went back to Steve's living quarters.

Steve ran a hand through his hair as they went in the door. He glanced around, but it was just as they'd left it, although he could no longer hear the shower running. "Thanks, Jarvis," he said. He and Phil had been discussing the situation in the kitchen when Jarvis had informed them that Clint wanted them to know they were needed immediately in the lab area. It hadn't been too much of a leap to guess that Clint wanted out, but didn't want to have to talk to anyone. Steve had seen Jarvis prevaricate before, and he wondered how much of Tony's ethics had been programmed into the system. He supposed it didn't matter, because this way they were able to know that Clint needed space, and that he was headed for Natasha's rooms. Steve wished Clint had wanted to talk to him, but he couldn't begrudge the instinct to go to his closest friend for support and assistance. 

"A distinct pleasure, sir," Jarvis said. 

"He's gone to Agent Romanoff's space?" Phil asked. 

"He should arrive there in approximately forty-five seconds," Jarvis said. "Agent Romanoff is already prepared for his arrival."

"Jarvis, if he needs either of us, please inform us as quickly as possible," Steve said.

"Of course, sir."

"Now what?" Steve asked, looking back at Phil. 

"We give him the space he needs," Phil said. "It's a lot to absorb in one weekend."

Steve tilted his head. "And in the meantime?"

"We carry on, the best we can." Phil shrugged. "There's work to be done. A few clean up areas where we can send the Avengers to take care of some of the worst damage, and engender good will. There was supposed to be a meeting in thirty minutes, but we may need to postpone it, given that Natasha won't be attending. We can call another one for later today, and hope that everyone is rested after yesterday's battle so we can arrange matters."

Steve acquiesced with a nod. "Let me get appropriately dressed and we can start evaluating sites, and get things back in order." Steve resolutely kept his mind on the tasks ahead. The Avengers were still needed in the city. Now that he'd rested—and for once in a long time, he actually did feel better—he was ready to start making headway against the chaos. 

~~~ 

There was a knock on the door and Steve opened it to find Natasha there, her expression blank. “How is he?” Steve asked. “Where is he?”

Natasha walked inside and nodded at Phil. “He’s resting.”

Steve frowned. “Sleeping?” At her second nod, he added, “But he slept all night—"

Phil gave a small cough and indicated Natasha with an incline of his head. “Soporific?”

“A very small amount,” Natasha said. “He wouldn’t drink much of what I gave him. Mostly I just talked him into it. A little street hypnosis.”

A tiny furrow appeared in Phil's forehead. "And left him alone?"

"Thor is watching him," Natasha responded. "He seemed the best choice, in case Clint woke before we decide how to proceed. I had to wait for Thor to get there, or I'd have been here ten minutes ago."

Steve frowned even harder. “You drugged him? But why? He was upset, but—"

“He was in mild shock,” Natasha said. “Thready pulse, restricted blood flow to his extremities, and shaking. He needs to sleep more than anything right now. But we don’t have long.” Natasha fixed a hard look at Phil and Steve. “This isn’t just about discovering he has a serious relationship with you, Steve. Although that’s adding to the stress. The bigger issue is that he’s been here long enough to become established as himself at seventeen. A different Clint than he was when he actually was seventeen the first time. And having his adult self overlay his consciousness right now is overwhelming him. He’s torn between the two identities. Stark and Banner need to have a solution to the situation immediately, or it isn’t going to be of any use down the road.”

Phil looked thoughtful, and he glanced to Steve with a tightening around his lips. “You’re telling us that the window of opportunity for getting our Clint back is closing.”

“It may already have closed, sir.”

Steve thought about Clint, and a sharp pain lanced through his heart. He put a hand on Natasha’s shoulder. 

“We’re going to lose one of them, Steve, either way, but we need to deal with this now, or we’ll lose him altogether. He’s a wreck over being the wrong Clint, for you, for the team, and for himself. But he’s afraid to not be himself any longer, because he thinks he’ll die.”

"But he will," Phil said softly, inevitably. "If we change him back, this Clint won't exist any longer."

"And if we don't change him back, then our Clint is dead already," Natasha said, her words sharp.

“What if we can’t change him back?” Steve asked. He didn't want to think about that. Clint wasn't _gone_ , he'd been here just this morning, for the scantest of minutes. It was _all_ Clint, as far as Steve was concerned, full memories or not. 

“We proceed as we were,” Phil cut in, ending that line of conversation. “We discussed this.”

Natasha eyed Steve, and there was a look of compassion there that Steve wasn’t used to seeing. “You’ll have to talk with him. You’ll have to convince him that it's fine. He’s attracted to you, but he isn’t ready for what you had with his older self. Right now, he isn't ready for you as anything other than friend or teammate, but part of him wants more. Just not right now. So you’d better decide what you’ll do. Let him go, completely, utterly, entirely. Or wait for him, and stay out of his way while he grows up. And maybe he’ll be interested in you later, or maybe not. It’s your life, too, Steve.” Natasha’s soft look vanished, to be replaced by a stone-hard firmness. “But you have to release him. He’s going to try to keep promises that he didn’t make. Or he's going to die for you, trying to turn himself into someone that he can't be.”

Steve sighed. “Anything I have to do, Natasha. I’ll do it.” He shook his head. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“None of us did,” Phil said. He squared his shoulders. “Jarvis, please have Tony and Bruce meet us in the lab. We’re on our way.” He addressed Steve and Natasha. “Let’s get up to speed on where they are with the tablet. Then we can figure out what to do.”

Steve barely noticed the walk to the lab areas, he was so deep in thought over what was to come. As they approached the lab, he could see Tony and Bruce talking to each other, and Bruce pointing out a section of text on the tablet with a pair of tongs. 

“—light frequency,” Bruce said. “the problem might be we’re testing it on the wrong subject material. Plants react to light as a function of their biology. Humans don’t generally photosynthesize, unless their physiology has changed somehow.”

“I agree, but we can’t put a person under the ray and just hope for the best. How can we test the parameters?” Tony said, gesturing widely around him. They both stopped when they saw they had visitors. 

“Tony, Bruce,” Steve said. he took the barest of moment's to gather his thoughts, and then summarized everything in the most direct way he could. There was no time to get off track. “Clint had an episode this morning where he regained his memories, and doing so has negatively impacted his health. We need to know what the status is with the tablet.”

Steve watched as both Tony and Bruce processed the information. Bruce stepped forward first. “How is he? Negative impact?”

“Mild shock,” Natasha said. “He’s resting now.”

Tony whirled around, shaking his head, and returning to the matter of the tablet. “Not good. Same as the last time you asked, although we have a few more theories to test, but essentially….” He looked straight at Steve. "We don't have a way to fix him."

Steve lifted his chin slightly at that, and let the finality of it wash over him. His Clint was…gone. At least for now. But not truly gone. He would surface within Clint, and possibly someday…. 

Bruce cleared his throat. "Should I look at him? As a doctor, I mean."

Steve felt Natasha squeeze his elbow for the briefest moment, giving him a flash of support. "Yes. It might be wise to have him looked over." She nodded. "He's sleeping on my couch. Thor's watching him."

"Let me get my bag, and then we can go," Bruce said.

Steve swallowed, still standing, and found that Phil had taken a step forward, just into his peripheral vision. Phil was standing there as if he were carved from stone, shoulders slumped, eyes closed. "Phil?"

Phil shook himself back into order. "I guess I just had some hope in reserve that I hadn't yet released," he murmured, so only Steve could hear him. "Even as I made plans, and stayed as practical as possible, I still thought that it wasn't permanent. Clint's never not come back, no matter how impossible or miraculous the escape might be."

Steve nodded. "We're Avengers, Agent Coulson," he said, and put that wretched heart of his back into a closed, locked box. "We do what we must."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birthday Fic! 
> 
> Every year on my birthday, I post stories for everyone else. This is one of them. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for keeping up with me as I posted over the course of the past two weeks, leading up to the last chapters on my special day. I know this is a less common pairing, and certainly not a lot of romance was going on, but I have so enjoyed sharing the story with everyone

Clint woke slowly, and realized that he wasn't alone, but Natasha wasn't there anymore. It was Thor who sat quietly in a nearby chair, reading a book covered in blue fabric with faded gold lettering on the spine. Thor's attention flickered to Clint from the book, and he smiled and put the book down. "Ah," he said, "you're awake. Was your slumber refreshing?"

"Yeah," Clint said as he rolled up to a sitting position. It shifted a blanket off him that hadn't been there before, and he pushed it to the side. "Where's Natasha?"

"She went to have audience with the others," Thor responded, "and made the request of me that you should be guarded."

"Oh," Clint said. He thought about that. He still felt warm and calm, and very detached from all his troubles. They seemed smaller, somehow, and he looked at Thor with newfound interest. Thor was from another world. He wasn't involved, not really, other than as a teammate. Maybe Thor would know what to do. "Can I ask your advice?"

"If I have advice to offer, it will be yours, my friend," Thor responded. 

"I'm not who I used to be anymore," Clint started and at Thor's nod of comprehension, he continued. "And I know how much I lost. I remembered things this morning, and I didn't realize until then, how large the difference was."

Thor gave a small nod. "You are not much diminished, but it is true, you are not now the tempered warrior you once were. Though you shall be once again that, if you wish it."

"In twenty years," Clint said. "But we don't have that kind of time. The Avengers need Hawkeye back now." Clint paused, but Thor just looked thoughtful, so he continued. "And I know about Steve and me. Being together." 

A sad, sympathetic look crossed Thor's face. "Our good Captain has been much vexed as of late," he agreed, "but you should not take the blame upon yourself. It was not of your doing."

"I…I'm afraid, though," Clint admitted, and his voice was smaller than he'd hoped, though still steady. "If I become Hawkeye again, who I am, I'll die."

"You will cease to be as you currently are," Thor said, and he leaned forward to put one of his strong, large hands over one of Clint's. "But you will only be transformed, you will not cease to be. Just as you have not ceased to be Hawkeye." Thor's look tightened. "I am not gifted with extra sight, like others of Asgard, but like all Asgardians, I have always some sight into the nature of things. Your heart is true, Clint Barton, and you are always yourself, no matter the nature of your form. You should not underestimate the form you now take, nor esteem too highly that which you once were." 

Clint blinked at Thor as he turned the words over. "I'm still afraid," he said. "When the time comes, I won't want to be turned back. Even if its for the best. Even if _I'm_ not supposed to be here. Even if it's for Steve. And the Avengers."

Thor looked thoughtful, and a bit crafty, and Clint waited for him to speak. Finally, he did, slowly and haltingly. "My hammer was forged in the heart of a dying star," he said. "Mjölnir is more powerful than any can truly comprehend. Some of those powers even I do not fully understand, and many I do not use, or do not use often. I recall a battle of many years ago, where I struck a mighty blow upon a creature bespelled, and fractured the magic such that the creature was freed from its ensorcelled condition, and was released. Perhaps doing so again would transform you. Or perhaps it will not work, and you would be slain in the attempt. If this were to be, how would you chose your actions?"

Clint swallowed and thought about that. To suddenly have it laid out so plain before him was a shock, after so many months of hearing there was no reversal. He inhaled slowly, filling his lungs, and then exhaled slowly. 

Now there was an actual choice to be made. He had the option of remaining as he was. He never had to become his older self again. But that was wrong. He'd seen it in everyone's eyes. They _needed_ Hawkeye more now than ever. If he hadn't been at school, and coming late to the battle, how many lives could have been saved? How much destruction avoided? Staying like this was just selfish. Because the only reason to remain was his fear of change, or dying. On the other side waited all his teammates, and the organization that was trying to keep the world set right, his friends, and…his lover. 

"Could…could you do it now?" Clint asked, and was amazed at his own level of calm. He realized that Natasha must have put something in his drink, and it had helped him sleep, and was dampening the terror he should have felt. 

"Aye," Thor responded. "Shall I call the others to witness?"

"No," Clint said. "If it doesn't work, I don't want them to see." The thought of Steve watching him attempt this and fail, and not survive…he couldn't bear it. He couldn't do that to Steve. Somehow, he remembered a night where Steve had told him the story of his best friend, who'd fallen to his death during the war, right in front of Steve. Clint could feel the calm essence of his older self dictating this as well. It is worked, he would be returned to them, and if it failed, then only Clint would pay the consequences. "Jarvis?"

"Yes, Agent Barton?"

"Authorization code: Hawkeye November Echo Whiskey Bravo Zulu." The code came up to him easily. "Jarvis, you will not inform on this situation. And if I don't survive, my willingness and choice to do this will be advised." 

"As you wish, sir," Jarvis said, but the tone he took was reluctant. 

Clint looked at Thor. "I'd rather try and fail," he said. "It's too important not to."

"I understand, Clint Barton," Thor said. "Your culpability and mine shall be equal, however, no matter the outcome."

Clint nodded. He'd given Jarvis the code, and that meant that Clint was responsible for all of this. Nothing would happen to Thor. "Let's do it," Clint said. 

"We must go to the roof," Thor said. "I will need to summon much energy and power, and do not wish to cause disruption within the tower."

"Let's go," Clint said. 

As they walked to the elevators that took them to the roof, Clint fell into step with Thor. He looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "Thank you, Thor," he said. "For doing this. And being my friend." 

"It is I, friend Clint, who is grateful to you. Such bravery and determination as you show today is humbling."

Clint wasn't sure what to say to that. He kept his head straight and didn't reply, though Thor put one hand on Clint's shoulder while they rode the elevator to the roof. Thor looked quizzically at the scattered semi-melted globs of red all over the roof. 

"This is most strange," Thor said. 

"It's candy," Clint said. "Red jelly beans, specifically. Part of the mess that was made during the battle."

Thor nodded sagely. "Oft-times there are strange occurrences during the heat of battle." He surveyed the roof. "It would be best if we were to conduct ourselves in this area." He eyed the sky. "I will need to draw much energy to myself, in anticipation of the attempt. Do not be concerned with that, it will not harm you." Thor hefted his hammer in one hand. "When I have gathered the energies, I will strike you, and that will shatter the transformation. I am sorry, Clint Barton, but it may be most unpleasant to experience."

"I understand. It's okay. Just…just try to warn me a little, so I can brace myself."

"Aye. I will call out a warning." Thor studied Clint for a moment. "Are you sure of this decision? If all goes ill, I do not believe you would survive."

"Absolutely," Clint lied. He wasn't sure at all, but it didn't seem to him that any other choice was really possible. He'd be dead either way—either through the force of Thor's hammer, or else because he would cease to exist and the rightful Clint Barton would take his place. He wondered if he'd even know which had happened, at the very last. 

Thor put his hammer down and held out his hand. "I believe that a warrior's handshake would be appropriate in this moment. Good luck to you, Clint Barton. May you find what you seek."

Clint shook Thor's hand, and Thor covered both with his free hand. Clint straightened his shoulders. "Thanks, Thor."

Thor took a step back, retrieved his hammer, and then bent to stamp Mjölnir, handle first, on the ground twice. He looked up to the sky then, arms spread, and hammer held aloft, as the winds stirred, and clouds rolled in, darkened and angry. The scent in the air changed, warning of rain and fierce storms building, and far away Clint saw the shock of lightning, and the slow rumble of thunder as it finally reached his ears. In front of him, Thor still held himself in command of the elements, head thrown back, and nearly invisible energy fairly crackling about him. 

Clint took two steps away, until his back hit the wall holding the bank of elevators, and clenched his fists. Fear spiked through him, but he was resolute. He would not run, and in a few minutes, or way or another, this would be over. 

~~~ 

Steve stopped to look out the windows of the lab. "Looks like a storm is brewing," he said. 

"What did you say?" Natasha asked, moving quickly to the window. She splayed the fingers of one hand against the glass. 

Nearby Phil made a noise that Steve couldn't quite categorize. "Jarvis? Please report."

When there was no answer, Tony repeated the request, but in a louder, more forceful voice. "Jarvis. What's going on? Report _now_." He looked at the others, who just shook their heads in confusion. 

Bruce was closest to the door, with his small doctor's bag. "Report on Clint's whereabouts, Jarvis."

Still silence. 

Natasha was the first to spur into motion, but Steve was only a half step behind her. "Where to?" he asked as they ran, but before she could answer, the elevator bank in front of them opened all the doors at once. 

"In there," Natasha said as she sprinted. Steve hit the back of the elevator with his arms braced to cushion his sudden deceleration. 

"What's wrong with Jarvis?" Steve asked, bewildered as the elevator doors snapped closed, and the elevator car began to move up, without any buttons pressed. In the corridor, before the doors shut, Steve could see that the others were only a few yards behind, and that they would be able to take the other, open elevators. 

"Gag order, I think," Natasha said as she looked at the ceiling. "He can't tell us anything. But he can control the elevators." She glanced at Steve. "One of the many contingency codes that we've had Tony build into the system. As a precaution against assault on the tower."

"You don't have any counter codes?" he asked. 

Natasha glared. "We'll be where we need to be before I'd have the codes recited. Keep sharp, Cap. Whatever is happening, it's probably bad."

Steve took up a stance near the door. "Let's just make sure we all go home alive." The elevator stopped, and the movement was so truncated that Steve realized how fast the elevator car must have been traveling. The doors slid open, and Steve assessed the situation in a moment before rushing out and into possible danger. 

No one was visible from his vantage point, but a heck of a storm was gathering, with the tower being the pinnacle and focal point. The rain had already begun, and was sheeting down in torrents. 

"Jarvis brought us up here for a reason," Natasha said as she exited the elevator, two steps ahead of Steve. 

Steve followed her. There was only the area behind the elevator bank where individuals might be. As he rounded the corner, and his sightlines opened up, Steve slowed as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. 

Clint was pressed against the wall, chin up, defiant, but with his attention firmly fixed on Thor. His hair was stuck to his head, and his clothes clung to him, heavy and dragging. Thor was fifteen feet from him, arms held aloft as he commanded the weather to obey his command, and he was crackling with energy. Lightning hit his hammer, and traveled down into his arm and then around his body. It grounded into the roof. Then, finally, he lowered his head, and he saw Steve and Natasha, and he turned toward them for a moment and…winked. 

Thor shouted into the winds. "Prepare yourself!"

Clint stiffened, and his hands curled into fists at his side, but he didn't move. 

Thor stepped forward, and brought his hammer back, preparing to make a mighty blow. 

"No!" Steve shouted, horrified. He threw himself forward, intent on getting between Thor and Clint. Steve could possibly take a blow from Mjölnir, but if Clint did, then he would die. But his feet went out from under him as Natasha took him down at the knees. 

"Wait," she commanded. "Let him do this."

Steve scrabbled over, trying to get upright. He realized that the others had made it to the roof and rounded to the terrible scene unfolding before them. "Stop!" Steve shouted, still trying to gain his feet and his balance. 

Natasha blocked his way. "It's not what you think. Clint is safe."

Steve was drenched to the skin, and ice cold. He pressed forward, and only Natasha's slim hand across his chest held him back. Worry gnawed at his insides, because there was too much sound and fury, and it was all centered on their small rooftop.

Thor swung, and Steve held his breath, but Thor didn't hit Clint. Instead he pulled his blow, striking the wall just to the side of Clint, ringing a high-pitched clear note, and Thor spun so that he landed a soft, flat hand to Clint's sternum. Silver-blue energy bled off Thor, running in rivulets down his body, shedding free, to pour in waves across the rooftop. 

Clint sucked in air, his eyes wide open, and both his hands up to grasp at the one Thor had placed so gently against his chest. 

Thor bent in to speak in Clint's ear, and Steve could hear a fragment of it against the wind and pounding rain. "…as you are, so you must be," Thor said, his voice resounding, nearly tolling like a deep, brass bell, "there is purpose to it, though you know it not. But you stood as a warrior against the fear of oblivion itself, and have proven your worth this day." 

Clint looked stunned, and he just stared up at Thor, his hands still clutching at Thor's wrist. "Rest easy," Thor murmured. Then he leaned forward and kissed Clint on the crown of his head, and Clint let go, and Thor stepped back. 

~~~ 

The warm shower felt truly fantastic and Clint stayed long enough under the spray to finally turn pinkish again and wash away all of the ice-prickled cold of standing in the deluge that Thor had summoned. He finally turned the water off, got out, dried himself, and then pulled on another set of sweatpants, t-shirt, and sweatshirt that were once his own. He plucked at a hole in the hem of the sweatshirt and wondered how it had gotten there, but the knowledge of that was shrouded in mystery.

He was once again in Steve's apartment. _His_ and Steve's apartment. He knew that now. This was home. 

They were going to send him back to Xavier's school, of course. Clint had no doubt about that. The initial decisions that sent him there were still sound, and nothing had changed in that respect. Clint partially looked forward to it—the chance to complete his education, instead of dropping out too soon, and the opportunity to explore what he might become, were heady and welcome. He only regretted that it would take him away from his duties to the team. That was still his highest priority. 

He also looked forward to seeing his friends again. He had somehow been able to find others that were just as off-kilter in the world as he was, spinning through their lives like tops set to skitter along onto firmament that wasn't so firm. 

Clint marveled that he could think more clearly about himself and the whole situation, in some measure, as if he were an outside viewer, and dispassionate. What Thor had done….

Clint understood it as the ruse it had been. Part bluster, part theatrics, and still wholly Thor's way of showing Clint the truth of his own soul. Standing there, against the wall, waiting for Thor to strike, Clint had never felt such determination before. It had come from inside him, and Clint had flinched and shaken, and still stood his ground. 

Thor's words had made _sense_ to him, as adrenaline had spiked in his brain, and his muscles had trembled, and Clint had reached for that hidden, deep wellspring and found himself. Not destroyed, not gone, but just waiting. Memories and knowledge and experience. Just bidding time, to unfurl as Clint needed, and at request, and Clint had left the fount untouched. 

The arcing silver-blue energy that had cascaded off of Thor, as he had released the pent up turmoil of the storm-build, had rushed over Clint's skin as well, given the close proximity. He'd felt it fill tears and holes, crevices he'd never even suspected existed, in himself, in the very fabric of his existence, and it had soothed over wounds rent and left untended since he'd woken to find himself inexplicably in what seemed like the future. 

There was a serenity and calm that Clint found himself with, only a hand's stretch away.

He could see now that Thor had _never_ intended to actually strike him with the hammer. That even if he had, the hammer didn't contain the sort of magic that would fix his transformation. 

Older Clint would have known that from the start, and not have asked it of Thor. Clint in the present didn't know Thor, nor his history, very well, and he had been so driven by his fears and desperation, that it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Clint sighed. He suspected that he was going to need to redefine what a good idea might be, and what a good idea most certainly was not. Still, Thor's ruse was not entirely empty.

Clint had felt the energy of Mjölnir striking the wall next to him, and marveled at how it could be contained within such a small form. It had pressed outward, licking at his skin and soul like flames from a furnace. That heat had burned away resistance, like cobwebs set ablaze, and Clint had felt scorched for the barest of moments, before it had faded, and he'd been left standing, cold and wet again, with Thor shielding his heart. 

Clint shook his head. He would have days and weeks yet to think on what had happened, and how he had been changed, and yet not changed at all. For this moment, what he needed was to talk to Steve. 

He toweled his hair as dry as he could, and roughly pushed it into order with his fingers before going to the door. He opened it and peered out. Steve was sitting on the couch, waiting for him. 

"Hey," Steve said, and he folded his hands on his lap. He'd also showered and changed out of his wet clothes. He looked comfortable in grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, with bare feet, and a cautious expression. "Are you hungry?" he asked. 

"A little," Clint said, "but it can wait." 

He walked over to the couch and stood in front of Steve, then dropped forward, to straddle Steve with his own legs, knees down. Steve shot back in his seat, as if seared by the touch. Clint curled his hands around Steve's biceps, and rested his face in the crook of Steve's neck. For a long minute, he just breathed in, and rested there. He could feel Steve tense beneath him. 

"Can we talk?" Clint asked, breathing his words against Steve's neck. "Really talk? We almost started to before, but we got…sidetracked."

Steve made a half-strangled sound. "Only if you sit next to me on the couch," he said. 

Clint pulled back, and studied Steve's face and then his hands. He was flushed and wide-eyed, and he had gripped the edge of the couch with his fingers, crushing the fabric in his fists. Clint rolled off and sat on the couch next to Steve. "Sure."

"You're feeling okay?" he asked. 

"Much better," Clint said. Bruce had taken on his doctor persona and checked him over even before they'd retreated from the rooftop. He hadn't missed the considering look Bruce had given him. 

"What do you want to talk about?" Steve asked, voice modulated and smooth. 

"I'm not him," Clint said, "though I've got parts of him. And unless Tony and Bruce figure out what to do, I may never be him again. Not entirely, or not for a long time." Clint looked to the ceiling, but closed his eyes. "Eventually, though, I'm going to be almost exactly him. I can feel his memories waiting, sometimes." 

Steve remained silent. 

"Still, that's _almost_. Not exactly. I do know how much he loved you," Clint said, as Steve made a sound deep in his throat. 

That had been more than abundantly clear in the few times that the wellspring had overflowed. Hawkeye had so many reasons, all bundled together and some fluttering free, for desiring Steve, for liking him, and for loving him. Clint didn't know if his feelings were entirely his own, or bleed over, but it didn't really matter. In a world of flawed and cruel people, it was impossible not to be drawn to a man who tried his hardest to be the best he could be. That he sometimes failed was more testament to why he should be adored—because the bravery was in the attempt, and the fortitude to do what was right, even if it was hard. Steve was too brilliant, too precious and rare, for Clint not to be drawn to him. 

He was less sure of why Steve might have ever found reciprocal feelings. When it came to fathoming the reversal, Clint was left treading water and clinging to slippery rocks. 

"I guess its really up to what you'd like to do about things," Clint said. "I'll be eighteen in a few months. But I won't be him yet. That might take a few years, or a few decades."

"Clint," Steve said, "you have your whole life—"

Clint cut him off. "I know I do. And I'm in no rush about it. What I feel about you, it just _is_. It isn't going to change because I meet someone nice, or go to college and get surrounded by others. If you send me away, do it because I'm not him. Don't do it because you think you're protecting me, or helping me. Because you'll only break my heart for all the wrong reasons."

"And what would be the right reasons?" Steve asked. 

"If you didn't love me back," Clint said, without even a momentary hesitation. "And I mean _me_."

Steve slipped his hand into Clint's, and they held hands together. "How can I not love you?" Steve asked softly. "You say you aren't him, but you can't really see how you are, in so many ways. You aren't exactly who you were, but less changed than you know." Steve's thumb rubbed against the back of Clint's hand. "But we will take this slow. Whatever this ends up being."

Clint grinned. "I do have a few memories about not taking things slow, you know."

Steve laughed. "Save them for me," he said. "Tell me when the time is right."

"You're going to wish you didn't wait," Clint teased. 

Steve looked down at the hands clasped between them. "I'm going to be glad I did," he said.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for the story:  
> 1) mild swearing  
> 2) mild kissing between teenage boys  
> 3) nothing happens between Steve and de-aged Clint other than angsty feelings and bittersweet love-lost  
> 4) Clint doesn't get back to his normal age (I want to leave it open to explore more of Clint's time at the Xavier school, perhaps in future stories)


End file.
